HEAR 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  LAST  FRONTIER 
AND  OTHER  VERSES 


Celestial  longings,  surgings  unexprest, 

Old  lays,  forgotten  in  the  passing  of  the  years, 
Dust  of  dead  thoughts,  the  salt  of  passioned  tears, 
Burning  as  lava  on  a  naked  breast, 

Love,  hope,  and  joy  divine — 
These  things  are  mine; 
Wherewith  in  solitude  I  scan 

And  by  my  lonely  watchfires  sing, 
Yearning  to  know,  What  is  this  thing — 
This  rag-doll  thing — we  call  a  man? 


Heart  of  the  Last  Frontier 

and 

Other  Verses 

BY 
ERNEST  EVERHART  BAKER 


WITH  COVER  DESIGN  BY  THE  AUTHOR 


SALEM 

OREGON  BOOKLOVER'S  EDITION 
1915 


COPYRIGHT,  1915 

BY 

ERNEST  EVERHART  BAKER 
PRINTED  DEC.  1915 


Bflftcroft  Library 


CONTENTS 

Page 

PREFACE 13 

PRELUDE 14 

THE  HEART  OP  THE  LAST  FRONTIER  . 15 

LOOKING  OUT  FOR  PAY 16 

WHERE  THE  OREGON  EAGLE  CRIES    17 

A  LILY  OF  ASSINIBOINE 18 

WANDER  SONG    21 

55       PARENTAGE 21 

££       THE  TRAIL  TO  GIBBET 22 

^        THE  SPELL  OF  THE  UPLANDS 24 

fH       DELUSION 24 

r-        THE  MAN  FROM  KEG 25 

O       EQUALITY    27 

HILL  BORN 28 

EPHEMERA ." 30 

EPIGRAM 30 

BAGATELLES  OF  FATE 31 

THE  GODS  OF  SMALL  ALLEYS 32 

THE  CUP  OF  BEAUTY 33 

IN  THE  MARKET  PLACE 34 

SHEP 36 

THE  RIME  OF  THE  MARY  SIKES 38 

WISP  O'  SMOKE 41 

HOW  THE  FIRST  GAME  OF  BASEBALL  WAS  PLAYED 42 

WHEN  THE  WILD  ROSE  BLOOMS  ON  MORNING  GLORY  TRAIL.  .  44 

SONG  OF  A  CITY  TRAMP 44 

DAWN 45 

SECOND   SIGHT    46 

MONARCHY     ...  46 

THE  SIGN  OF  YAWNING  SKULL 47 

KINGSHIP    52 

LOVE  IN  A  CAFE 52 

A  JOB  FOR  EVERYBODY 53 

LE  SACROSANT 54 

SPRING  IN  THE  UPLANDS 56 

A  ROSE  OF  OLD  CHAMPOEG , 57 

QUEST    60 

TO  A  DEAD  SWALLOW  .  61 


Page 

THE  LYRE  OF  LIFE 61 

A  PILGRIM  OF  THE  UPLANDS 62 

MOUNT  HOOD 64 

SAILING  OUT  OF  BALTIMORE    65 

BERLETA    66 

THE  BRIDE  OF  CERRO  GORDO 67 

OUTCAST 69 

SONNET:    ON  A  CHALICE   70 

UNREST  IN  THE  DUST 70 

DESOLATION 71 

WHO? 73 

WHAT  DICKY  THOUGHT 74 

THE  MEADOW  LOVER 75 

SOUTHEAST  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE 76 

ON  THE  HEIGHTS 77 

THE  MAN  ON  THE  STAGE  WHO  LEARNED  THAT  HE  WAS  A  BAD 

ACTOR    78 

FAME    80 

LOVE  IN  THE  HEATHER 81 

MAUREEN    82 

A  SONG  OF  SUMMER 85 

THE  PICNIC  AT  BLUE  BIRD 86 

HARVEST    88 

INVOCATION 89 

THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 90 

"?"    91 

WIMMEN  AIN'T  CARDS 92 

A  YOUNG  MAN'S  WILL 94 

ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  AUTUMN  WOODS 97 

TO  THE  WILLAMETTE 100 

A  NIGHT  IN  PARADISE 101 

DESERT  LOVE    103 

LITTLE  BRITT 104 

THAT  WOMAN  YOU  MEET 107 

PEBBLE  OR  WAVE   108 

RUINS  OF  A  CONVENT 109 

THE  HEART  OF  A  DOUGLASS 110 

WISDOM  IS  LOVE    112 

THE  LOVE  OF  ADVENTURE 113 

AGAINST  THE  WIND 114 

EVENSONG    114 

URBA  MORBA 115 

TRUTH 116 

A  SONG  OF  LABOR 117 

LOVE  AMONG  THE  MAGNOLIAS 118 


Page 

ALONE  WITH  THE  DEAD 119 

SUNSET    119 

JASON  LEE 120 

A  LAMENT    122 

A  LAMP  TO  THEIR  FEET 123 

THE  ANGEL  OF  LOST  CAMP 124 

SEA  LOVE 125 

ON  SWEET  BRIAR  TRAIL 126 

A  SONG  OF  THE  PLAINS 129 

THE  HILLS  OF  THE  COLUMBIA 130 

ON  THE  CLIFF  PATH 131 

IN  THE  LANE 132 

SUCCESS    133 

THE  VILLAGE  BEE 134 

THREE  MEN  OF  THE  SEA 136 

GOSPEL — ACCORDIN'  TO  GEORGE 137 

MY  LITTLE  PATH  AND  1 138 

THE  LAST  MUSICIAN 139 

IN    TEMPEST    140 

REQUIESCAT    141 

THE  WINDS  OF  LOVE    142 

LASTUDE  .  .143 


Could  I  but  sing  into  my  rhyme 

A  creed  of  life  which  men  would  find, 

Fitting  and  true  to  every  time, 

When  struggle-weary  hearts  grow  blind 
Beneath  the  blows  time  dares  to  give, 
Laughing  that  man  desires  to  live — 

Could  I  but  say,  for  every  day, 

The  prologue  of  a  merry  lay, 

Whose  player  would  in  glee  impute 
A  fonder  chanson  to  his  lute — 

My  song  should  feel  itself  at  most 

Well-worthy  of  the  smiling  host 

Who  dared  to  say  for  me  betimes: 

A  rhymester  lived,  whose  merry  rhymes 

Lifted  the  heart  of  man  above 

The  cares  of  life,  and  let  him  love — 

Led  him  afar  from  his  ancient  ways, 

Where  glory  allured  with  its  smiling  blaze, 

Led  him  away  from  the  creeds  of  old, 

Where  the  altar-smokes  of  faith  were  cold, 

And  the  hopes  of  life  were  put  to  rout 

By  the  harrying  legions  of  dread  and  doubt, 

To  the  gaiety  of  a  new-found  shrine 

Where  he  might  dream  for  one  divine, 

Sweet  moment,  free  from  every  care, 

Finding  a  sacred  solace  there, 

Till  his  listless  heart  went  fancy-free 

In  the  purple  wines  of  Poesy — 

Could  I  but  say — 

Man's  heart  each  day 

Would  smile  upon  these  kindly  things, 
And  say,  "Have  peace — a  poet  sings!" 


To  those  three  comrades  of  my  yesteryears,  whose 
unfailing  hope,  courage,  affection  and  fellow- 
ship scattered  rays  o'  sunshine  over  the  foot- 
hills along  my  trail  to  the  passes  and  uplands 
o'  the  Last  Frontier;  and  to  that  unforgotten 
Other,  who  journeyed  not,  but  lies  in  a  bask 
o '  primrose  by  the  wayside. 


PREFACE 


Take,  if  you  will,  these  orphans  of  my  whim, 
Dear  dreams  of  prisoned  years,  when  youth  was  mine, 

Said  to  my  wistful  soul,  when  day  grew  dim, 
Ere  slumber  bade  my  reveries  resign. 

In  fancy,  I  have  wandered  far  and  near, 

Questing  these  tender  songs  you  might  desire, 

Singing  them  over  to  a  yearning  ear: 

The  troubled  droonsongs  of  my  fretful  lyre. 

A  little  Dust  of  Diamonds  on  a  shore ! — 
A  passing  tide  will  wash  them  out  to  sea! 

Yet  irks  me  little  what  reward  in  store, 

If  I  have  taught  you  what  was  truth  to  me. 

Gay  have  I  sung  them  to  my  lonely  heart, 
Loving  their  fancied  music  well  and  true ! — 

Take  them,  dear  Comrades,  take  them,  as  we  part : 
I  gave  my  youth  to  buy  these  songs  for  you. 


(  13  ) 


PRELUDE 


If,  as  I  hide  these  lays  of  grief  and  rapture, 
Some  lone  heart  hear  me  in  his  bleak  despair, 

Grant  with  my  symphony  his  cares  I  capture, 
Where  I  may  chance  to  chant  a  gipsy  air. 

Grant  that  some  wanderer,  some  vagrant  rover, 
May  pause  to  revel,  some  blithe  chord  to  scan — 

Grant  he  may  stay,  repeating  fondly  over, 
Some  echo  of  the  brotherhood  of  man. 

Some  strain,  remote,  in  tawdry  texture  hidden, 
A  glow-worm  truth  that  glimmers  from  the  dark, 

And  guides  his  soul,  a  guest  contritely  bidden, 
To  rise  and  greet  the  rapture  of  the  lark. 

Grant,  as  I  sing,  my  interlude  of  pleasure 

May  touch  some  heartstring  and  resound  anew, 

Lifting  that  bosom  to  a  stately  measure — 
And  I  have  made  the  song  I  wished  for  you. 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

My  firelight  flames  and  darkens,  the  drifting  smokes  arise, 
The  shadows  coil  about  me,  and  many  a  wood-spark  flies; 
While  amidst  their  glaring  signals  gentle  visions  reappear, 
In  fanciful  remembrance  of  the  Last  Frontier. 

The  livid  tongues  of  purple  like  impish  Titans  leap, 
Awakening  my  fancies  with  visions  long  asleep ; 

And  like  the  pyre  before  me,  where  elf-things  play  of  nights, 
The  watchfires  of  my  memory  reflame  with  dead  delights. 

The  portraits  on  the  mantel  seem  to  catch  a  gleam  of  gold, 
Reminding  me  of  dear  ones  I  loved  in  times  of  old, 

And  I  meet  in  reminiscence  those  friends  of  yesteryear 
Along  the  romance-road  that  finds  the  Last  Frontier. 

I  find  them  in  the  passes,  where  we  were  wont  to  meet ; 
We  drink  among  the  taverns,  and  our  cups  are  very  sweet; 

We  track  along  the  foothills,  and  our  revelries  are  gay ; 

And  around  our  winter  nightfires  we  lift  our  merry  lay. 

They  pass  review  in  dim  array,  their  faces  lit  with  smiles, 
Grip  hands  with  mine  in  comradeship  a  dream  of  old  beguiles, 
Converse  with  me  of  ancient  joys,  of  fellowships  sincere, 
And  the  failure,  toil,  and  glory  of  days  of  yesteryear. 

Yet  still  it  seems  among  them  all  I  found  no  friend  who  stuck : 
They  always  were  a  restless  sort,  their  friendship  was  but  luck : 

They  always  found  another  trail,  and  followed  where  it  led ; 

And  where  we  might  have  come  to  friends  we  broke  the  bonds, 
instead. 

As  I  gaze  upon  the  mantel,  at  the  portraits  peering  there, 
Their  tender,  loving  features  seem  to  burn  me  with  despair ; — 
Yet,  as  I  linger  on  the  scene,  some  stray  face  to  recall, 
There  comes  to  me  a  friendly  soul,  more  dear  to  me  than  all. 

(  15  ) 


He  rises  from  the  firelight,  that  flickers  on  the  log: 
He  puts  his  nose  between  my  knees,  that  habit  of  a  dog : 
It  seems  to  me  he  almost  speaks — I  think  he  understands — 
I  pat  his  head — he  brightens — he  licks  my  broken  hands. 

0  comrades  of  the  yesteryears,  my  fire  is  dying  low ! 

Come,  fellow;  can't  you  hear  me?    The  shadows  come  and  go. 

He  whines  and  whimpers  at  my  feet,  the  friend  I  hold  most 
dear: 

0  comrades,  it  is  lonely  on  the  Last  Frontier. 


LOOKING  OUT  FOR  PAY 


I  see  men  everywhere  around  who  never  find  the  dirt : 
They  whine  if  things  are  not  to  suit ;  they  whimper  if  things  hurt ; 
They  seem  to  only  drift  and  dream,  and  oh !  the  tale  is  old : 
They  only  pan  the  utter  dross,  though  everywhere  is  gold. 

Now  life  is  one  big  prospect,  and  surely  not  so  much 
The  matter  of  a  choice  of  claims  as  digging  them,  and  such. 
I  think  the  man  who  does  his  best  at  everything  he  tries 
Is,  after  all,  the  only  one  who  ever  wins  the  prize. 

And  so  I  like  the  man  who  smiles,  nor  heeds  much  what  his  lot, 
No  matter  what  his  claim  may  be,  if  fortune  smiles,  or  not ; 
"Who  always  plays  the  better  part,  and  lifts  a  song  in  glee, 
And  pans  the  placers  of  his  soul,  and  finds  them  rich  and  free. 

I  think  if  men  would  live  their  lives  along  the  open  road, 
And  lend  a  gentle  word  of  cheer,  and  tote  their  share  of  load, 
Nor  loiter  much  to  whimper  if  the  diggings  most  was  clay, 
Life  would  not  show  a  streak  of  dirt  that  did  not  carry  pay. 


(  16  ) 


WHERE  THE  OREGON  EAGLE  CRIES 

When  your  toils  are  done,  and  the  setting  sun 

Grows  dim  at  the  end  of  your  trail, 
And  you  ponder  the  worth  of  the  prize  you  have  won, 

And  you  long  to  tell  over  your  tale ; 
And  you  yearn  for  a  spot  where  the  burn  and  the  blot 

Will  fade  in  the  boundless  skies — 
Come,  drink  joy's  wine  from  the  Gods'  own  pot, 

Where  the  Oregon  eagle  cries. 

For  the  thrushes  sing  by  the  purple  spring 

With  music  that  croons  in  the  dale ; 
And  your  bosom  may  wrest  from  the  sorrows  that  sting, 

And  be  free  from  the  burdens  that  ail. 
In  the  silvery  trees  by  the  silvery  seas 

With  the  silvery  surge  that  sighs, 
Your  heart  may  awaken  to  rapture's  ease, 

Where  the  Oregon  eagle  cries. 

With  a  trail  to  take  and  a  jest  at  stake, 

And  a  shimmering  river  to  sail, 
You  can  turn  to  the  pleasure  for  pleasure 's  own  sake, 

In  a  land  where  no  pleasure  can  fail. 
If  you  long  for  the  wild  and  the  peace  of  a  child, 

And  a  revel  that  dwindles  nor  dies, 
Come  to  a  realm  where  no  care's  beguiled, 

Where  the  Oregon  eagle  cries. 

For  a  laugh  may  lift,  and  a  dream  may  drift, 

A  lyric  may  lilt  in  the  vale, 
And  a  ripple  may  ring,  and  a  shadow  may  sift, 

But  a  sorrow  need  never  assail. 
If  your  journey  is  run  and  your  quest  has  been  won, 

You  will  rest  and  forget  your  sighs 
In  a  golden  sun,  when  the  day  is  done, 

Where  the  Oregon  eagle  cries. 

(  17  ) 


A  LILY  OF  ASSINIBOINE 

If  you  like  a  little  story  with  a  sprinkling  of  shame, 
Of  a  man  whose  heart  is  lonely  with  a  grief  that  knows  no  name, 
Come  with  me  to  Athabaska,  where  the  skies  are  blue  above, 
To  the  solitary  valley,  where  the  factor  found  his  love. 

Lavoyne  had  come  from  Montreal,  where  women  made  men  fret, 
To  find  the  freedom  of  the  wilds,  and — if  he  could — forget ; 
And  the  voyageurs  had  wondered  why  he  tarried  in  the  land — 
But  only  one  in  Montreal — who  knew — could  understand. 

Of  nights,  the  Cree  would  hear  him,  when  the  moon  was  in  the 

rills, 
As,  borne  upon  the  whining  winds,  his  voice  came  through  the 

hills; 

And  they  bore  with  them  a  legend  of  a  spirit  on  the  trails, 
That  sang  of  Old  Dominion  where  the  lurking  panther  wails. 

And  there  is  yet  another  tale  they  tell  along  the  pass, 
Of  one  whose  trail  could  know  no  turn,  and  led  into  the  vasts ; 
And  the  legend  seems  to  tell  us  that  she  followed  to  its  end, 
And  found  a  lonely  valley,  and  a  man  no  man  called  friend. 

Lavoyne  had  met  her  at  the  Post,  one  howling  winter  day : 
A  choking  gust  was  on  the  trail,  and  she  had  lost  her  way  ; 
And  amid  the  glaring  riot  and  the  tumult  of  the  place 
His  mind  had  set  to  wondering  if  he  had  not  seen  the  face. 

And  something  in  her  manner  seemed  to  draw  him  unawares, 
As  if,  perhaps,  a  lonely  life,  and  broken  hopes,  and  cares, 

Had  awakened  her  to  sympathy,  where  others  might  intrude ; 

And  so  he  told  her  why  he  came  to  live  in  solitude. 

'Twas  not  a  pretty  story ;  but  Lavoyne  had  caught  her  eye— 
"You  call  to  mind  a  sweetheart,"  he  was  saying,  "times  gone  by; 
But  she  left  me  for  another, "  and  he  leaned  upon  the  bar, 
And  told  them  there  the  story  of  a  man  who  wore  a  scar. 

(18) 


see,  he  stole  her  heart  away,  and  stained  her  with  his  wine, 
And  led  her  off  among  the  lights,  this  lily  who  was  mine ; 

So  I  lost  the  dreams  I'd  cherished,  and  by  heart  was  torn  and 

sore: 
I  went  and  found  another,  though  I  loved  my  lily  more. 

"And  then  he  won  this  other,  and  she  turned  me  from  her  door; 

She  curtained  dark  her  window,  and  her  light  was  mine  no  more ; 
So  I  vowed  an  ancient  reckoning :  to  blight  him,  and  to  mar, 
And  hunted  him,  and  branded  him,  and  left  him  with  a  scar. 

"  'Twas  in  the  merry  tavern,  there  in  Montreal,  one  night. 

Outside  the  snow  was  fury,  but  the  room  was  blind  with  light ; 
And  I  saw  a  rouge  madonna  at  a  table  in  the  place, 
A  lily  at  her  bosom,  and  the  paint  upon  her  face. 

' '  I  looked,  and  saw  her  laughing,  though  I  did  not  catch  her  eye : 
She  turned  her  head  away  from  me,  as  one  who  would  defy; 
But  between  the  glowing  vistas,  as  I  drank  upon  a  stair, 
I  saw  this  man  beside  her,  at  a  table,  drinking  there : 

"  '  To  Britain :  health,  forever ! '    But  before  the  toast  was  said, 
I  reeled  him  with  my  goblet,  and  his  face  ran  streaming-red ; 
But  I  did  not  heed  nor  tarry,  only  moved  along  the  floor, 
Across  the  crowded  barroom,  stepped  outside,  and  closed  the 
door. 

"And  so  I  lost  the  game  of  love,  where  others  play  and  win. 

My  heart  was  tired ;  I  hated  things — the  wine,  the  lights,  and  sin ; 
So  I  came  away  and  left  it  all,  and  came  among  the  Cree — 
But  I  often  see  her  smiling,  and  I  think  she  calls  to  me. 

"Behind  her  in  the  shadows  is  a  man  upon  his  knees. 

He  staggers  like  a  madman — he  is  lost  among  the  trees ; 

And  the  trail  is  like  a  puzzle ;  and  he  gropes,  too  tired  to  see, 
Among  the  lonely  passes  of  the  frontier  of  the  Cree." 


The  Post  was  strangely  silent,  but  the  wind  outside  was  wild, 
As  if  a  thousand  wolves  were  there,  and  whining  like  a  child ; 
But  Lavoyne  was  only  gazing  at  a  portrait  on  a  shelf— 
His  guest  cried  on  a  table,  for  she  knew  it  was  herself. 

"To  Britain:  health,  forever!"    She  was  standing  by  Lavoyne. 
He  started,  paled — stepped  backward :  ''You,  at  far  Assiniboine !" 

Out  of  doors,  the  wind  was  shouting,  hoarse,  as  if  its  throat  was 
dry — 

It  seemed  toward  the  threshold  they  could  hear  a  sled  go  by. 

Lavoyne  was  white  and  quivering — why  it  was  she  never  knew. 

She  was  watching  him  in  silence,  and  the  wind  outside  that  blew 
Was  a  lurching  drunken  Titan  as  a  hand  threw  wide  the  door, 
And  a  frosted  figure  tumbled  in,  and  sank  upon  the  floor. 

Lavoyne  tore  off  its  parka :  ' '  God !  that  man ! "  he  heard  her  say. 
She  tottered  to  his  bosom — like  a  helpless  thing  she  lay ; 

And  Lavoyne  looked  drawn  and  jaded,  and  he  staggered  to  the 
bar, 

For  lying  there  upon  the  floor  was  the  fellow  with  a  scar. 

"In  Montreal,  I  loved  you,"  said  Lavoyne,  his  vision  red. 
"And  I  loved  you,"  she  whispered;  but  she  only  hung  her  head; 

And  Lavoyne  clasped  close  a  lily  whom  the  sin  would  stain  no 
more — 

But  the  life  was  gone  forever  from  the  man  upon  the  floor. 

On  the  lonely  Athabaska,  where  the  skies  are  blue  above, 
Men  renounce  a  braver  reason  for  the  cowardice  of  love, 
And  it  seems  to  be  the  proverb  love  will  find  its  way  alone : 
And  the  merry  hearts  of  Britain  guard  Her  loves  to  find  their 
own. 


(  20  ) 


WANDER  SONG 

Oh  I  sang  me  down  the  valley,  when  the  dawn  was  all  a  glory, 

And  the  hills  were  full  of  laughter,  as  the  wind  sang  in  the  trees ; 

For  the  joy  of  youth  was  in  me,  and  I  longed  to  know  its  story, 
And  I  yearned  to  wing  a  journey  on  the  pinions  of  the  breeze. 

As  my  lyre  of  life  unburdened,  trembling  fondly  in  my  fingers, 
Mine  was  promise-song  eternal :   there  was  gladness  in  my  breast : 

Like  the  joy  of  summer  evenings,  when  the  scarlet  sunset  lingers, 
Ere  the  darkness  veils  the  gloaming  at  the  bosom  of  the  West. 

It  was  tender  joy  within  me,  and  the  jests  of  mirth  that  flourished, 
That  was  pleading  low,  and  calling  me  to  find  a  life  more  free ; 

It  was  weariness  of  bondage  toil  and  bitterness  had  nourished 
That  appalled  me,  and  had  stretched  its  all-adoring  arms  to  me. 

Was  it  up  the  trails  I  wandered,  was  it  down  the  dells  I  revelled, 
It  was  freedom  that  was  calling:  it  was  hope  that  rent  the  bond; 

It  was  loneliness  that  lured  me,  where  the  giant  peaks  were  bevelled : 
It  was  hunger  for  the  summits,  and  the  plains  that  lay  beyond. 


PARENTAGE 

Through  the  hazy  mist  of  ages  man  has  dreamed  himself  a  past, 
When  beside  the  night-long  campf ire,  he  has  toasted  toes  and  gassed ; 
And  anon  throughout  the  vistas  of  the  future  of  the  race, 
Woman  pops  the  proper  issues,  and  propitiates  the  pace. 

In  some  geologic  darkness,  'neath  the  grime  of  years  that  pass, 
Human  bones,  encaved  and  crumbling,  grasp  the  omnipresent  glass; 
And  surely  everyone  of  us  in  moulding  would  be  curled 
If  the  women  by  the  campfires  had  not  ruled  a  willing  world. 


(  21  ) 


THE  TRAIL  TO  GIBBET 

When  a  red-eyed  moon  is  peering  at  your  cabin  in  the  clearing, 

And  a  shaft  of  silver  spatters  in  the  moosehide  on  the  floor, 
And  your  merry  hearthf ire 's  gleaming,  while  your  heart  is  dreaming, 

dreaming, 
In  some  happy  thought  that's  flitted  through  your  memory  just 

before ; 
To  your  mind  comes  swiftly  fleeting  something  sad  beyond  repeating, 

And  you  sit  in  wan  submission  as  the  merry  visions  play, 
Till  you  wake  forgotten  revels  while  the  wind  wails  down  the  levels, 
And  you  dream  on  lonely  nightfires  that  have  burned  along  your 
way. 

So  you  fare  those  olden  journeys,  face  the  foil  in  ancient  tourneys, 

Grip  your  hilt  in  vanished  conflict  with  your  long-forgotten  foe ; 
Meet  anew  dire  dead  disasters,  greet  once  more  now-tongueless  mas- 
ters— 

Lay  your  cloaks  of  pride  before  them  that  they  trample  as  they  go — 
Cringe  beneath  them,  shorn  of  splendor ; — swift  your  palsied  dreams 
grow  tender — 

Now  you  toil  in  blear  obeisance,  heeding  meek  an  old  command ; 
Hear  again  the  voice  of  vastness  calling  you  to  find  the  fastness, 

And  the  luring  trails  new-beckon  you  to  seek  a  far-off  land. 

Like  a  toper,  blindly  reeling,  from  the  stews  you  soon  go  stealing: 

Men  ignore  you — friends  forget  you — no  one  seems  to  care,  or  mind. 
You  are  down  and  out,  a  vassal,  banished,  exiled  from  life  castle — 

With  a  sad  forlornly  rue  you  leave  the  moated  grange  behind. 
Now  and  then  you  turn  to  linger  on  the  scene  and  with  your  finger 

Point  along  the  game  of  failure  where  you  might  have  won  the 

cast ; — 
But  a  dream  is  all  that's  left  you,  and  a  trail  no  man  has  cleft  you — • 

So,  a  vagabond  of  dreams,  you  go  dim- journeying  from  the  past. 

Far  from  life's  gay-sparkling  rallys  swift  you  seek  untroubled  valleys, 
Roaming  silent  to  fair  uplands  by  the  trails  no  man  has  made ; 

(22) 


Overhead,  a  starling  guides  you;  all-around  the  shadow  hides  you, 

But  you  journey  ever  onward  and  your  heart  is  not  afraid. 
So  in  reminiscence  often,  olden  battle-rigors  soften, 

And  your  rippling  blood  awakens  fallen  fancies  with  its  mirth ; 
For  you've  found  the  game,  and  played  it,  sensed  the  conflict  and 

essayed  it — 

Lost !  But,  God  be  praised !  you  paid  it  with  the  cost  the  quest  was 
worth. 

But  it's  not  to  fail  that  burns  you  as  the  dismal  thought  that  turns  you 

To  the  one  whose  heart  was  wafted  on  the  pinions  of  your  hope ; 
And  it's  not  that  you  have  lost  her  as  the  bitterness  it  cost  her 

And  the  hungry  hearted  loneliness  through  which  her  life  must 

grope. 
And  it's  not  to  fall  that  breaks  you  as  the  tortured  grief  that  takes 

you 

To  the  comfort  of  a  fancy  and  a  memory  of  her  call; — 
Yea,  though  bitter  be  your  failing,  yet  her  treasured  love  comes 

veiling, 
Veiling  dim,  and  ever  dimmer,  what  is  destined  to  us  all. 

So  the  moonlight  in  the  clearing,  saddening,  blightening,  endearing, 

Flames  anew  the  olden  campfires  by  dim  trails  old  memories  tread ; 
When  upon  some  portrait  staring,  where  the  crimson  hearthf ire's 
flaring, 

Something  wakes  your  tender  fancy  to  a  love  you  once  have  said. 
Swift  into  your  spirit  burning  sifts  a  sudden,  saddening  yearning, 

While  the  lava  wines  of  childhood  thrill  the  frosted  blood  of  age ; 
And  you  lonely,  sadly  ponder  on  the  loving  portrait  yonder, 

Till  the  tears  of  dim  f orgetf ulness  wash  clean  your  memory 's  page. 


(23) 


THE  SPELL  OF  THE  UPLANDS 

They  grip  you  by  the  heart,  and  hold  you  hard, 

Like  talons,  clutching  to  their  bleeding  prey. 
They  bond  you  like  a  link  a  smith  has  scarred, 

Forged  white-hot  in  your  breast  of  throbbing  clay. 
They  hold  you  like  the  hasp  of  mighty  claws, 

The  panther's  gnash,  the  viper's  wincing  clasp. 
They  brule  you  like  a  marling  bruin 's  maws : 

Strive  though  you  will,  you  cannot  break  their  grasp. 

Depart  from  them,  they  make  your  heart  seem  void. 

Remain  away,  they  gnaw  you  like  a  rat. 
They  cling  to  you  like  soft  lips,  lover-cloyed: 

You  cringe  and  yield,  as  moth  unto  the  ghat. 
So  have  they  lain,  and  bathed  in  yellow  sun, 

Forsaken,  blasted,  worn  by  wind  and  age, 
Luring  men's  hearts  since  first  was  time  begun: 

So  shall  they  lure,  till  time  unrolls  its  page. 


DELUSION 

Ah,  that  was  death,  we  thought — 

Forsaking  youth,  and  leaving  it  behind  us — 

Forgetting  what  it  held  of  dreams  and  sorceries, 

And  reckless  even  age  should  hold  no  care — 

Forgetting  loves  beneath  the  moon,  we  knew, 

And  every  unspent  sorrow  that  we  bore 

In  childish  innocence,  and  strove  to  bury 

In  the  bosom  of  the  silent  hills ! 

Ah,  that  was  death,  we  thought ! 

How  strange  to  say  we  even  thought,  those  happy  days. 


(  24  ) 


THE  MAN  FROM  KEG 

I  meets  him  in  the  tavern :  he  is  standing  on  his  peg. 
His  real  name  is  McTavish,  but  his  cognomen  is  Sneg : 
He  will  rob  a  shrouded  spirit,  this  gentleman  from  Keg. 

I  am  loafing  at  the  bar  in  the  LITTLE  POLAR  STAR, 

And  he  looks  a  full-grown  moon  from  drink  or  feed; 
So  I  pours  him  off  some  scum,  and  he  gulps  it,  meek  and  dumb, 
And  remarks,  "I  guess  a  drink  is  what  I  need!" 

"I'm  McTavish  Sneg,"  says  he;   "But  they  calls  me  'Sneg  McT'." 
And  I  sees  he 's  plumb  gone  dippy  as  a  louse ; 

Which  his  faults  is  great  and  small,  and  he  tells  'em  in- a  drawl, 
As  he  orders  up  the  drinks  for  all  the  house. 

Now  McTavish  isn't  rich,  but  he  has  a  gnawing  itch 

For  to  see  his  bit  of  color,  and  the  lights; 
So  he  opens  up  his  pack :  which  he  blossoms  with  a  sack ; 

Then  he  lugs  me  down  the  street  to  see  the  sights. 

Well,  the  air  is  full  of  sleet:  we  gets  wet  from  head  to  feet! 

"Did  you  ever  steal?"  he  says  to  me,  "or  beg?" 
And  his  eyes  is  like  a  blade,  so  I  nods,  and  looks  afraid, 

For  says  he,  "I  robbed  a  grave  once,  back  in  Keg." 

I 1  Sneg,  you  're  rather  rough, ' '  says  I — but  he  heaves  a  happy  sigh ! 

Then  we  drags  up  to  a  halt  outside  a  door: 

"FORTUNE  TELLER:  ENTER  HERE,"  says  a  banner  fit  to  smear; 
So  we  sluices  in  and  thumps  across  the  floor. 

Which  the  gentleman  within,  who  is  scrawny-like  and  thin, 

Has  the  haggles  over  prices,  and  the  like ; 
And  McTavish,  sort  of  rash,  whisks  the  fellow  out  the  sash, 

Where  he  settles  in  a  trashpile,  on  a  spike. 


(25  ) 


"You  be  Oracle !"  says  Sneg;  and  he  chucks  me  with  his  leg, 
And  he  makes  me  wear  the  robes,  and  be  the  Prof. 

So  McTavish  takes  their  dust,  while  I  peddles  out  the  crust; 
And  we  starts  the  matinay  performance  off. 

Well,  in  comes  a  'dough  in  mucks,  and  he  squats  down,  big  as  ducks, 
So  I  starts  the  trancing-game,  and  throws  a  fit; 

But  I  nearly  throws  to  stay,  though  I  gets  up  nerve  to  say : 

"Fortune  waits  you  when  the  bluebird  starts  to  twit." 

I  am  watching  of  his  eye;  Sneg  is  peeking  on  the  sly; 

But  the  'dough  is  soft  and  dreamy  as  a  lamb ; 
As  I  scoops  him  up  the  feed,  while  he  downs  it  hull-and-seed ; 

And  McTavish  smiles  at  what  a  seer  I  am. 

Which  my  talk  is  keen  and  shrewd :  ' l  When  you  stumble  on  a  dude, 

With  a  silver  cobweb  trailing  on  his  hat, 
It  is  sure  a  certain  sign  that  your  fortune  sprouts  a  spine, 

And  is  going  to  be  a  leap-frog  after  that." 

Then  the  'dough,  he  sighs  some  more,  but  he  picks  up  off  the  floor, 

And  kashoots  a  bag  of  dust  into  my  lap  ; 
And  he  seems  to  have  no  doubt,  as  he  starts  to  dwindle  out, 

With,  says  he :  "  You  shore  are  some  magician,  Cap ' ! " 

Well,  I  sees  McTavish  spring  on  the  'dough,  and  give  a  swing, 

And  he  has  our  recent  subject  in  a  wink; 
Which  he  flops  him  on  the  rug,  and  he  prowls  him,  clean,  and  snug, 

And  kawhoops  him  out  the  sash  to  cool  and  think. 

I  can  see  McTavish  smile,  but  I  sure  despise  his  style, 

Though  I  sort  of  grips  my  teeth,  and  keeps  my  huff; 

But  he  sniffles  some,  and  grins,  and  is  doubling  up  his  fins, 

When  I  cautions  him,  ' '  Come,  Sneg,  dear,  not  too  rough ! ' ' 

Then  McTavish  sort  of  hums ;  so  I  knuckles  up  my  thumbs, 

And  betakes  my  opportunity  to  rise; 
Which  I  ups,  and  on  my  hips,  and  intrudes  him  on  the  lips, 

And  I  bulges  in  and  pickles  up  his  eyes. 

(  26  ) 


I  am  like  a  gentle  storm,  and  my  feelings  sure  is  warm, 

For  McTavish  says,  "You're  rather  rough, "  says  he; 

And  I  surely  must  confess  that  this  McTavish  is  a  mess; 
But  I  does  the  same  before  he  does  to  me. 

I  rips  his  shirt  to  pieces,  and  I  spoils  his  wooden  leg. 

I  mauls  him  plumb  to  smithers,  all  except  the  name  of  Sneg 

He  never  likes  me  afterward,  this  gentleman  from  Keg. 


EQUALITY 


Each  pale,  pretenseful  prince 

On  royal  highroad  set 
Exults  in  fatal  ignorance 

That  might  be  joy,  and  yet 

Is  surest  retrogression  to  the  lifeless  loveless  dust. — 
And  men  are  filled  with  bitterness,  for  bitterness  is  just. 

And  men  who  fears  have  known 

On  tawdry  byways  gone 
Fare  sober,  restless  and  alone 
From  dusk  to  sturdy  dawn 

And  view  the  errant  character  of  all  men  with  regret, — 
And  if  they  felt  a  bitterness,  that  were  but  justice  yet. 

For  song  and  jest  and  travesty 

Dear  hopes,  like  dreams,  that  died, 
Ambition,  joy,  and  ecstasy 

Must  vanish  side  by  side; 

And  prince  and  pauper  follow  them  and  crumble  into  dust. 
And  men  are  filled  with  bitterness,  for  bitterness  is  just. 


(  27  ) 


HILL-BORN 


I  grew  up  in  the  quiet  hills,  a  solitary  child. 

I  learned  to  love  the  drooping  pines,  and  all  that  haunts  the  wild; 
And  came  to  know  the  woodcraft  of  all  the  hidden  rills, 
That  goes  to  make  a  greater  thing :  the  spirit  of  the  hills. 

And  something  in  the  solitudes  has  led  me  far  and  near. 

Of  evenings  when  the  moon  was  low  and  the  mountain-air  was  clear, 
I've  loitered  on  the  gleaming  heights  that  look  on  many  a  space 
And  drunk  in  all  the  poetry  of  Nature 's  roughened  wastes. 

I've  wandered  in  the  passes,  while  the  snows  lay  shoulder-deep, 
When,  under  myriad  winter-stars,  the  white  earth  lay  asleep ; 
And,  brooding  there  alone  of  nights,  the  country  came  to  be 
The  very  spot  of  all  the  earth  the  Gods  had  made  for  me. 

I  joy  to  hear  the  robin  lisp  his  treble  in  the  trees. 

The  sparrow  and  the  mavis  mock  my  inmost  secrecies. 

I  know  their  errant  whims  and  ways,  and  each  one 's  gentle  art : 
Perhaps  for  this  the  hills  have  claimed  dominion  on  my  heart. 

There 's  gold,  they  say,  along  the  steeps ;  there 's  silver  on  the  crests ; 
But  more  than  these  are  mingled  in  the  gorgeous  crimson  wests; 
.  Nor  can  all  the  precious  galleries  of  museums  remote 
Boast  a  single  pallet  worthy  of  the  poem  Nature  wrote. 

I've  lolled  along  the  summits,  when  the  hills  were  wet  with  dew, 
As  the  tortured  Gods  of  Morning  scratched  their  bleeding  fingers 

through ; 
And  the  gore  of  night  ebbed  crimson  down  the  wastes  of  cloven 

field— 
A  druid  rite  of  sacrifice  on  Nature's  pagan  shield. 

(  28  ) 


I've  roamed  the  dells  at  noonday,  when  the  trilling  thrush  sang  free, 
And  the  sun  blazed  down  the  canyons,  where  the  rills  sang  up  to  me — 
I've  strolled  the  cliffs  at  gloaming,  when  the  sunfall  slew  the  West, 
And  the  evening's  benediction  waked  a  reverie  in  my  breast. 

And  peering  off  across  the  land  my  hungry  eye  might  glimpse 
A  wizard's  hermitage  of  wastes,  where  ruled  day's  nameless  imps, 
That  frolicked  through  the  loneliness  till  day  was  tired  and  spent, 
And  bade  me,  watching  on  the  brink,  repose,  and  be  content. 

The  tesselated  columns,  the  vague,  entrancing  deeps, 
The  yawning  purple  chasms,  where  a  thread  of  river  creeps, 
Have  allured  a  thousand  singers  to  their  fascinating  brinks, 
Where  the  gay  Gods  brew  their  nectar,  and  the  soul  of  Poet  drinks. 

Yet  none  could  wrap  in  idle  words  the  peace  the  rills  enclose, 
Nor  wreathe  in  futile  sophistry  the  joy  the  hilltop  knows : 
It  would  have  been  a  sacrilege  to  even  try  repeat — 
Perhaps  it  is  the  silence  seems  to  make  the  mountains  sweet. 

And  death  desires  no  burial  more  grand  than  in  a  glade 
To  crumble  in  the  sepulchre  the  Titan  hills  have  made, 

Nor  yearns  profounder  requiem  than  lonely  winds  that  wail, 
Nor  rarer  wreath  or  garland  than  a  lily  of  the  vale. 

Nor  could  a  future  be  so  fond,  nor  destined  realm  so  sweet, 
As  just  to  droon  eternally,  in  reverence,  at  the  feet 

Of  some  great  lofty  mountain,  which  the  Gods  have  built  so  high : 
A  pagan  Nature  worshipper,  who  did  not  fear  to  die. 

The  throng-enchanted  cities,  the  treasure-seeking  marts, 
And  all  the  merry  places,  very  dear  to  human  hearts, 

Have  conspired  to  rob  the  human  of  the  peace  the  mountains  bring ; 

And  men  are  old  at  dawn  of  life,  and  never  learn  to  sing. 


(29  ) 


Yet  high  upon  the  golden  ridge  a  merry  song  may  rise, 
And  man  may  mock  his  sorrow  in  the  twilight  of  the  skies, 

Till  the  peace  awakes  his  fancies  by  the  fading  sunset's  glow, 
And  he  dreams  a  dead  past  over  that  was  vanished  long  ago. 

Maybe  you  have  not  found  the  hills — then  pray  not  tarry  long, 

Nor  jest  upon  the  burden  of  my  aimless,  idle  song ; 

Lest  sometime  you  should  find  yourself  in  love  with  them,  you  see, 
And  think  the  fault  of  loving  them  a  sin  to  lay  to  me. 


EPHEMERA 


Time  for  an  instant  bare  relents — 
Permits  to  lovers  love's  idolatry, 
To  those  who  sing, 
A  city's  merriments, 

And  a  flush  of  moonlight  on  a  momentary  sea 
Then  sweeps  the  colors  from  its  pallet,  for  time  is  king. 


EPIGRAM 

The  world  is  apt  to  forget  a  benefactor, 
Though  it  attach  much  reverence  to  his  work. 


(30) 


BAGATELLES  OF  FATE 

We  weren't  all  born  to  be  men  of  the  hour, 
Nor  destined  to  stalk  in  the  boots  of  a  king, 

Nor  to  pride  gay  arenas,  where  crowds  fling  their  flower, 
Bold  themes  for  the  poets  to  sing. 

It  wasn't  ordained  we  should  scale  to  a  star 
And  pluck  the  wise  owl  of  a  moon  by  the  beard, 

Nor  whir  through  the  clouds  in  a  fanciful  car, — 
An  elf  of  the  wan  and  the  weird. 

We  are  mere  bagatelles  in  the  dice-box  of  chance, 
And  it  makes  little  odds  if  we  lose  or  we  win ; 

But  the  question  is,  How  did  the  fiddler  dance? 
That  lives  when  our  checks  are  cashed  in. 

Perhaps  if  we  only  would  cling  to  the  game 
And  play  for  the  love  and  the  joy  of  the  thing, 

Small  reck  would  it  be  were  it  failure  or  fame! — 
It's  only  the  battle  we  sing. 

Though  fondly  we  toil  with  a  hope  in  our  quests, 
Scant  ever  we  scale  to  the  heights  and  the  mounts; 

For  fortune's  a  hermit,  and  jealous  of  guests! — 
It's  only  the  struggle  that  counts. 

Aye,  fortune  is  jealous   yet  ever  he  lures; 

His  quest  is  a  track  that  the  toiler  must  tread ; 
Nor  cares  he  a  whit  if  the  victor  endures 

In  memory  after  he's  dead. 

Ah,  no !    It's  the  manner  of  deeds  we  have  wrought 

And  the  words  of  good  cheer  and  of  hope  that  we  gave- 

It  is  only  the  kind  of  a  battle  we  fought, 
That  lives  when  we  sink  to  the  grave. 

(  31  ) 


THE  GODS  OF  SMALL  ALLEYS 


Did  ye  ever  loll  and  loiter  on  the  bosom  of  a  valley  up  the  foothills  to 

the  summits,  when  the  budding-  spring  was  new, 
Where  the  summer  Gods  lay  waking  in  the  smother  of  the  ridges,  and 

the  snowfurls  spun  their  fury  in  a  sack  of  wind  that  blew  ? 
Did  ye  ever  gaze  down  chasms,  where  a  sun  has  never  hidden,  and  the 

shadow-tongues  of  noontime  lapped  the  lyric  of  the  rills, 
Braving  death  in  lonely  passes,  where  the  winds  of  winter  harried, 

when  the  scuttles  of  a  tempest  scraped  the  silence  from  the 

hills? 
Have  ye  sped  through  desolation,  up  a  land  forever  brooding,  where 

the  winds  forlornly  revel,  and  your  dreams  to  death  r'esign, 
Roaming  down  the  boundless  open  by  the  streams  that  urge  and 

waken,  when  the  treachery  of  springtime  sings  of  glory  in  the 

pine? 
Have  ye  gazed  in  wordless  wonder  at  a  land  beyond  expression,  where 

the  tongues  that  strove  to  utter  seemed  a  murmur  of  the  lost? 
Then  ye  know  the  turbid  grandeur  of  the  life  the  fates  ordained  us ! 

It  is  death,  but  it  is  freedom ;  lo,  we  joy  to  pay  the  cost ! 

We  have  tracked  you  down  the  open,  when  a  trail  was  all  ye  left  us, 

when  the  gloaming  was  a  phantom,  and  the  day  had  never 

shone ; 
We  have  yawned  upon  your  campfires  from  the  lordly  blackened 

barrens,  when  the  world  breathed  summer-stillness  and  the 

moon  leered  down  alone ; 
We  have  mocked  you  from  the  uplands,  when  the  deadened  world 

lay  gleaming,  and  the  jeweled  stars  were  staring  at  the  levels 

of  the  snow; 
We  have  laughed  at  storm  and  tempest ;  we  have  jeered  at  wind  and 

weather,  running  free  in  utmost  valleys,  where  no  trail  had 

dared  to  go. 

(  32  ) 


Up  the  slopes,  across  the  barrens,  down  the  swales  and  screaming 

rivers,  snarling  mad  in  bitter  conflict,  lest  our  fellows  should 

prevail, 
From  the  tides  that  wet  the  seashores  to  the  snows  that  blind  the 

summits,  wailing  out  among  the  silences,  where  men  have  made 

no  trail. 
Tracking  up  toward  the  Northland,  when  the  summer  is  a  glory, 

slinking  back  toward  the  Southland,  when  the  winter-bitterns 

soar ; — 
Lo,  our  law  of  life  is  written  in  the  bleach-white  bones  that  sparkle 

from  the  grandeur  of  the  summits  to  the  sadness  of  the  shore. 


THE  CUP  OF  BEAUTY 


Two  kings  and  a  jester  were  sitting  at  wine, 

At  a  table,  remote  in  the  court ; 
And  jollity  reigned,  that  the  kings  might  resign 

Their  desires  to  a  bottle  of  Port. 

"Ah,  here's  to  the  wine,  for  the  heart  elates, 

And  lifts  to  the  heavens  on  wings — 
Aye !  enters  triumphant  within  the  fair  gates ! ' ' 

Said  a  one  of  the  jovial  kings. 

The  jester  was  smiling;  the  other  king  said, 

"In  a  chalice,  with  wine  to  the  brim, 
I  have  sensed  all  the  beauty  thy  heaven  displayed !" 

But  the  jester  was  laughing  at  him. 

* 
"What  ho,  sir,  O  jester?"  cried  the  good  kings,  gored 

At  such  conduct,  contrary  to  rule — 
"Ah,  speaking  of  wine,  sirs,"  the  jester  man  scored, 

"When  it  takes  us,  we  all  seem  the  fool!" 

(  33  ) 


IN  THE  MARKET  PLACE 

She  had  gamed  with  her  soul,  and  lost ; 

But  that  was  no  fault  of  her  own ! 
She  had  paid  the  pitiless  cost 

Fortune  wrests  from  the  girl  that 's  alone ! 
But  somehow  the  sins  of  her  heart 

Are  common  to  me  and  to  you, 
And  vanish  alike  in  the  comedy-part 

Love  plays,  when  its  dreams  come  true. 

We  met  in  the  market  place, 

And  wandered  a  many  a  mile. 
I  looked  in  her  tender  face, 

And  she  answered  me  with  a  smile. 
She  touched  my  glass,  and  my  hand, 

And  the  careless  wisdom  of  wine 
Sent  love's  old  song  to  singing  grand 

Through  these  hungry  veins  of  mine. 

We  scaled  the  sundown  heights, 

And  the  mist  was  a  veil  on  the  sea ; 
And  over  the  waters  the  city's  lights 

Came  smiling  to  her,  and  to  me. 
And  the  breakers  sang  their  somber  song, 

And  the  dancers  sang  on  the  dune, 
As  we  sat  on  the  cliffs  in  a  revel,  long, 

Under  our  regret's  dead  moon. 

In  the  market,  the  lights  were  flame ; 

But  the  love  in  my  breast  was  fire ! 
She  was  sorrowing  with  her  shame, 

Yet  I  was  blithe  with  desire. 
But  I  said :   "At  dawn,  we  must  part ! ' ' 

And  she  cried  like  a  tortured  thing ; 
And  she  lay  on  my  breast  with  a  broken  heart, 

Like  a  bird  with  a  shattered  wing. 

(  34  ) 


And  the  night  in  the  east  came  red ; 

And  the  morn  grew  salt  on  our  lips. 
"  It  is  dawning  to  grief, ' '  she  said ; 

And  she  wept  for  the  harbor  of  ships: 
"When  they  bear  you  away,  I  am  sad, 

For  the  market  is  lone,  you  know ! ' ' — 
' '  Good-bye, ' '  I  said — ' '  In  my  love,  I  am  glad ; 

But  in  sorrow  and  love  I  go ! " 

And  the  tide  was  beginning  to  run, 

But  she  clung  like  a  child  to  me — 
"I  am  going,"  I  said,  "with  the  sun, 

To  the  arms  of  my  mother,  the  sea!" 
My  love  was  as  lava  and  fire; 

She  was  coy  as  a  child  at  play— 
"Good-bye,"  I  said,  "For  the  east  is  a  pyre!" 

And  we  parted  at  break  of  day. 

At  the  pier,  as  the  bark  put  by, 

She  was  waving  her  hand  to  me ; 
And  a  scarlet  sun  was  in  the  sky, 

And  the  dawn  was  a  flame  on  the  sea. 
And  the  love  was  a  flame  in  my  breast, 

But  my  lips  were  curved  in  a  song : 
"Good-bye!"  I  sang,  "For  the  billows  love  best!" 

"Good-bye!  you  will  not  stay  long?" 

And  the  sea  mourns,  bitter  and  mad, 

And  wails  for  a  song  of  the  shore ; 
And  often  I  long  for  the  sad, 

Sweet  face  that  I  see  no  more. 
For  she  turned  back  to  the  street ; 

I  sailed  to  the  weary  sea; — 
But  oft  in  my  fancies  her  face  I  meet, 

And  I  know  she  remembers  me. 


(  35  ) 


SHEP 

Scotty  an'  I,  we  pulls  our  stakes, 

An'  squats  along  a  pass, 
An '  hustles  us  a  bunch  of  rakes, 

An'  runs  'em  on  the  grass. 
They  calls  us  herders- 'round,  I  guess. 

We  scarcely  ate,  or  slep'. 
But,  sir,  our  stakes  was  shorely  less, 

If  it  hadn't  been  for  Shep. 

You  know,  a  herder  never  sings — 

The  sheep,  they  rasp  him  so. 
An'  all  the  lonely,  landly  things 

Just  keep  his  spirits  low. 
An'  Law,  it's  lonesome — makes  you  mean! 

Sir,  we'd  not  had  no  pep' — 
I  doubt  much  if  we'd  made  a  bean, 

If  it  hadn't  been  for  Shep. 

A  man  gets  scrawny-like  out  here ; 

The  life  is  hard  enough ; 
The  silence  is  a  thing  to  fear ; 

The  grub  is  sloppy  stuff. 
But,  sir,  we  never  did  complain, 

If  things  warn 't  up  to  rep ', 
Because  a  man  can  bear  some  pains 

To  own  a  dog  like  Shep. 

Sir,  Shep  could  almost  sing  a  chune, 

An'  mighty  nigh  could  speak; 
An'  evenin's,  just  before  the  moon, 

"When  we  was  tired  an'  weak, 
We  used  to  get  the  shaggies  in, 

An'  Law,  we  needed  he'p; 
Sir,  I  don't  know  just  where  we'd  been, 

If  it  hadn't  been  for  Shep. 

(  36  ) 


One  evenin',  back  in  last  July — 

(Law,  but  that  day  was  hot!) 
We  counted;  an'  the  sheep  was  shy 

Nigh  forty  of  the  lot. 
Scotty  an'  I  was  tuckered  out. 

(We  never  was  adepM) 
An'  them  lost  sheep  can  just  go  pout, 

If  it  hadn't  been  for  Shep. 

Sir,  Shep,  he  spec'lates  on  the  band, 

An'  sees  how  much  we're  shy; 
An'  then  he  strikes  acrost  the  land — 

So  hot !  an',  law,  so  dry ! 
An'  purty  soon  he's  bringin'  back 

Some,  though  no  count  was  kep'; 
An',  sir,  we'd  lost  'em — it's  a  fac'! — 

If  it  hadn't  been  for  Shep. 

Well,  sir,  no  sooner  than  he  saw 

Them  shaggies  in  the  pen, 
But  back  he  saunters  down  a  draw 

Acrost  that  white-hot  land  again. 
An'  purty  soon  we  hears  a  yowl, 

An'  after  him  goes  Bep', 
Another  dog,  not  wuth  a  scowl, 

'Long  side  a  dog  like  Shep. 

An'  then  we  seen  a  purty  show: 

Shep  has  some  crippled  rams 
He's  hustled  up  an'  bringin'  slow; 

An'  sir,  he's  got  some  lambs. 
He  don't  forget  the  lambs,  that  dog! 

Well,  shorely  you'll  git  ep, 
An'  canter  quite  a  dusty  jog, 

To  beat  a  dog  like  Shep. 


(  37  ) 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  "MARY  SIKES" 

A  two-mast  clipper-bark  she  was;  good-fortune  was  her  boast! 

She  danced  away  from  every  craft  that  ever  rode  the  coast; 
We  built  her  for  a  weather-queen,  the  kind  a  sailor  likes! — 
But  the  toughest  crew  that  ever  sailed  was  on  the  Mary  Sikes. 

Some  ghouls  she  had  from  Hamburg  Town,  a  rogue  or  so  from  Cork  I—- 
Her lines  were  spick  and  pretty  as  a  pickle  on  a  fork ! 

And  every  time  we  sailed  from  port  the  Skipper  used  to  say: 
"Egad,  but  don't  she  understand!"  so  smooth  we  sailed  away. 

We  hauled  the  taste  of  stinky  kegs,  the  scent  of  spice  and  tea, 
A  smatter-whiff  of  dizzy  gin,  adance,  from  sea  to  sea! 

She  bore  her  tasks  most  ladylike,  and  nosed  her  way  so  proud 
We  swore  an  airy  sire  was  hers,  soft-mothered  by  a  cloud. 

It  chanced  that  up  in  high  Japan  we  lay  in  a  lagoon, 
A  sack  of  wind  among  her  sails,  a  white  ring  'round  the  moon, — 
The  sea  was  throbbing  like  a  heart  that's  sorrowing  and  sighs — • 
And  all  our  six-and-twenty  jacks  lay  drunk  among  their  styes. 

"A  weather  moon!"  I  heard  one  say,  among  the  kegs,  below. 
1  i  Methinks  a  gust  of  flaw  is  nigh ! ' '  another  murmured  low. 

Aye,  aye !    A  bask  of  sudden  wind  sent  water  splashing  free ; 

And  veiling  dark  the  staring  moon  the  mists  gurled  down  the  sea. 

Like  leaping  tongues  of  dismal  blue  the  livid  surges  spun ; 

And  like  a  frightened  gull  we  scurled  and  flappered  on  a  run ; — 
A  snip  of  wood,  a  tattered  rag,  on  seas  that  skipped  and  soared, 
We  frolicked  down  the  stinging  blow,  and  revelled  where  it  roared. 

"Methinks  a  shoal  is  just  ahead,"  I  heard  the  Skipper  say. 

"All  hands  on  deck,"  I  chattered  loud,  the  while  the  moon  grew  gray. 

For  half-a-league  away  a  head  rose  black  against  the  sky ; 

And  pale  along  the  cliffs  I  saw  a  beacon's  yellow  eye. 

(  38  ) 


' '  All  hands  on  deck ! "  I  screamed  again — a  whisper  in  the  blow ! — 
The  Skipper  shouted  deep  and  hard,  yet  none  came  from  below. 

I  clutched  along  the  lurching  deck,  and  tore  away  a  hatch ; 

But  all  was  dark  as  death  below,  and  so  I  fetched  a  match. 

With  shining  eyes  they  winced  from  me — ' '  On  deck ! "  I  shouted  loud. 
The  weather  whinnied  like  a  gull — the  moon  hid  in  a  cloud ; 

But  swift  hands  struck  away  my  light,  and  grasped  me  down  the 
dark — 

1  'Make  fast  and  tie  his  gnarly  hands!"  I  heard  a  voice  remark. 

' '  Stop !    This  is  mutiny ! "  I  roared ;  they  only  laughed  at  me. 
"Be  quiet,"  croaked  the  gloomy  dusk,  "Or  deep  you  sink  to  sea!" 

"A  shoal !"  I  groaned.    They  clamored  loud ;  and  tied  me  to  a  chest. 

Above  the  storm  the  Skipper  cried:   "A  reef  is  on  our  west!" 

I  vowed,  if  cheer  betide  the  wreck,  and  I  live  down  the  shock, 
And  tender  seas  shall  set  me  safe  and  sturdy  on  the  rock, 

Nor  rest,  nor  stay,  nor  jest  will  I  till  vengeance  full  be  paid !  - 
Though  men  may  slay  me  in  their  pride,  yet  I  am  not  afraid ! 

The  sailors  scuttled  to  the  deck,  and  hatched  up  tight  the  slot ; 
Yet  reeking  in  the  stewy  hold  my  blood  remembered  not, 

Save  of  the  blackened  curse  of  hate  I  lately  had  avowed ; 

And  pledged  my  soul  from  keep  of  God,  and  wagered  in  my  shroud. 

We  shattered  forthright  on  a  shoal ;  and  twenty  leagues  of  sea 
Hurled  spars  and  chests  and  tumbling  casks  of  wreckage  on  the  lea ; 

And  three-and-twenty  sailors  washed  in  corses  on  the  shore ; 

And  with  them  lay  the  Skipper ;  yet  the  sea  cast  up  no  more. 

Swift  followed  storm  and  tide  three  years,  and  down  the  Yeddo  bund 
I  flensed  a  callow  gin-bloat  leech  that  smoked  and  sang  and  sunned, 
And  deeply  in  his  throat  I  gripped  and  tore  his  spirit  free 
And  flung  his  blood  and  broken  bones  to  feed  the  famished  sea. 


(  39  ) 


And  followed  tide  a  year  and  seven,  and  down  in  Singapore 

I  shipped  a  scurley  half-mast  scum  that  jewsharped  on  the  shore ; 

And  trailed  him  from  my  choppy  stern  three  days  and  three  of 
darks, 

Till  rib  and  rind  and  clot  and  bone  he  dwindled  to  the  sharks. 

Of  nights  no  pain  of  conscience  came,  when  in  my  dreams  I  strayed ; 

Yet  deep  down  in  my  'bittered  breast  a  foaling  hatred  played 
That  nurtured  hate  by  kith  and  kin  till  many  hates  were  mine — 
And  on  this  sailor  more  was  wreaked  my  blear  and  bleak  design. 

And  so  it  chanced  a  shattered  ship,  long-crunched  on  High  Japan, 
Called  ever  from  its  bloody  reef  to  quest  the  staying  man ; 

And  that  I  loved  my  ship  in  life,  in  death  I  would  be  true ; 

And  straightway  did  my  vow  remake  to  quest  all  ports  I  knew. 

And  deep  ten  years  cut  in  my  heart  with  pain  and  deathlike  woe ; 

And  oft  I  thought  of  one  I  loved  ashore,  dim  years  ago — 
A  flaxen  fisher-hag  of  hest,  with  lips  of  purling  red, 
That  kissed  my  heart  with  ashes  till  my  hope  and  love  were  dead. 

And  not  a  wife  my  years  had  borne,  nor  kith  nor  kin  were  mine ; 
And  life  was  only  half -a- joy,  save  deep  in  blinding  wine ; 

And  hope  had  only  that  I  cleave  to  see  my  vengeance  paid; 

And,  dead-of -nights, 'I  fancied  new  the  vows  I  once  had  made. 

And  so  I  found  him  in  the  night,  dim-lighted  by  the  moon — 
A  taste  of  weather  in  the  air — a  tide  that  wailed  its  rune — 
A  busky  claw  of  flying  scud  was  scraping  clean  the  sky — 
But  after  ten  deep-furrowed  years,  we  met  there,  he  and  I. 

I  had  a  pistol  at  their  hearts,"  he  chuckled,  swift  of  speech; 
And  billowed  hate  rose  in  my  soul,  until  with  chiming  screech 

My  rifle  sang  its  death  to  him,  and  red  and  still  he  lay ; 

And  like  the  cannon-shock  of  doom  the  crash  wailed  down  the  bay. 


(  40  ) 


I  knelt  beside  him  with  a  match,  and  gazed  into  his  eyes — 
A  flock  of  shipmen  looped  us  round,  as  when  a  comrade  dies ; — 
But  like  a  haunting  dream  I  saw  a  vanished  grace  relight, 
And  lisping  lips  regenerate  a  sweetness  known  one  night. 

A  time-slain  sin  was  swept  away ;  but  in  this  featured  vice, 
A  pinch  of  f athered-flesh  of  mine  lay  dead  in  wan  disguise ; — 
A  lading  drear  of  nether-love,  when  youth  had  burst  its  dikes 
And  borne  the  flood  of  fate  and  death  unto  the  Mary  Sikes. 


WISP  0' SMOKE 


I  scarce  remember  where  we  met,  though  of  meeting  my  mind  is  sure. 

Perhaps  it  was  only  in  a  dream,  and  my  fancies  had  gone  demure ; 
Yet  lonely  evenings  as  I  sit  by  my  hearth  and  smoke  and  dream 
The  curling  wisps  reveal  your  face,  and  pleasantly  real  you  seem. 


I  think  the  fire  upon  the  hearth  is  brighter  for  dreams  of  you ; 

The  winds  outside  blow  not  so  cold  as  once  they  were  wont  to  do  ; 
The  ghostly  flames  that  flare  and  leap  glow  gaylier  on  the  floor — 
It  even  seems  my  life  has  dreams  it  never  has  known  before. 

Perhaps  my  heart  is  made  of  dreams,  for  I  think  I  am  always  gay. 

It  makes  me  happy  to  sit  alone  and  watch  the  firelight  play; 
But  oftentimes  I  want  a  friend  who  will  share  my  lonely  fire, 
Though  ever  as  I  think  of  you  I  seem  to  know  nought  to  desire. 

And  so  amid  my  reveries,  at  eve,  as  I  sit  in  my  thought, 

It  seems  amid  the  swirling  wraiths  your  delicate  form  is  wrought ; 

And  thus  I  fancy  that  you  will  come,  and  if  my  dreams  should  come 
true, 

My  heart  would  be  sublimely  gay  with  a  hearth  and  a  pipe  and  you. 


(  41  ) 


HOW  THE  FIRST  GAME  OF  BASEBALL  WAS  PLAYED 

Saturday  noon  in  Jungle  Town,  and  the  monks  were  off  for  the  week ! 
The  apes  had  all  gone  fishing  in  the  pools  of  the  Jungle  Creek. 
The  tiger  snored  in  his  sun-washed  lair;  the  snakes  were  having  a 

swim; 
And  the  big  Orang  stood  up  and  sang  on  the  Council  Sycamore  limb. 

In  the  City  Square  a  jaybird  sat,  preening  himself,  on  a  stump. 
The  stork  was  getting  a  drink  of  water,  down  at  the  Old  Town  Pump. 
Some  rats  were  having  a  wrestling  match ;  an  owl  was  having  a  song ; 
And  the  promise  there  was  passing  fair  for  fun  for  the  Jungle  Throng. 

When  up  from  his  lair,  where  the  tiger  lay,  there  came  a  hideous  wail. 
The  monks  and  babs  went  scattering  along  the  Jungle  Trail. 
The  tiger  rose  and  stretched  himself,  and  stuck  his  nose  in  the  air, 
And  filled  the  hills  with  terrible  shrills,  like  an  imp  in  dire  despair. 

The  monks  and  babs,  hid  up  the  trees,  peeked  at  him,  now  and  then. 
The  tiger  crept  outside  and  stood  at  the  door  of  his  smelly  den. 
He  said  to  them,  "I've  had  a  dream,  and  I  know  of  a  game  to  play: 
Old  Jungle  Town  will  do  things  brown ;  we  '11  make  her  fame  today ! ' ' 

He  stole  his  way  to  the  leopard's  lodge,  and  filched  from  over  the  door 
What  once  was  the  head  of  the  leopard's  dad  in  the  dreamy  days  of 

yore. 

And,  spying  a  monk  on  a  shady  limb,  he  hurled  it  with  all  his  might 
At  the  harmless  head;  but  the  monkey  fled,  and  scuttled  away  in 

fright. 

At  first  nobody  would  touch  the  skull,  but  soon  a  bab  grew  brave. 
The  tiger  threw  the  skull  to  the  bab,  and  the  face  of  the  bab  was 

grave. 

He  tossed  it  on  to  the  monkey,  and  the  monkey  swung  to  the  ground ; 
And  the  Jungle  Folk  got  in  on  the  joke,  and  started  the  thing  around. 


(42) 


The  skull  went  whistling  through  the  air,  and  hit  the  stork  in  the  yap. 
A  monkey  took  the  thing  up  in  a  tree,  and  held  it  there  in  his  lap. 
But  after  him  went  the  big  baboon,  for  such  acts  were  disgrace ; 
And  the  monk  so  meek  got  jabbed  in  the  beak  and  punched  all  over 
the  face. 

Only  one  at  a  time  could  handle  the  skull,  so  the  baboon  scratched  his 
bean, 

And  the  tiger,  too,  and  they  had  a  talk  and  deep  thoughts  passed  be- 
tween ; — 

Then  the  tiger  would  throw  and  bab  would  bat  and  some  catch  the 
throws  he  missed, 

And  some  in  front  would  get  a  bunt,  and  the  rest  grab  flies  with  a  fist. 

Around  in  a  circle  the  monkeys  stretched  on  rocks  and  trees  and 

stumps ; 
Tiger  was  running  one  place  to  another,  and  the  rest  were  up  on  their 

humps ; 
When  home  came  the  leopard  whose  father's  pate  was  furnishing  all 

the  fun ; — 
(The  rattlesnakes  sang  on  Lake  Ungchang,  and  the  stork  blinked  up 

at  the  sun). 

As  the  leopard  slipped  from  the  gloomy  woods,  and  saw  the  commotion 

there, 
The  sight  of  his  pa's  bean  being  abused  was  more  than  his  heart  could 

bear  ; 

He  hit  the  bab  in  the  back  of  the  neck  and  wiped  him  up  on  the  loam ; 
And  the  monkeys  fled,  and  away  they  sped;  and  the  tiger  stole  in 

home. 


(43  ) 


WHEN  THE  WILD  ROSE  BLOOMS  ON  MORNING  GLORY  TRAIL 

I  can  hear  the  thrushes  singing,  as  in  days  that  used  to  be, 
When  I  wandered  in  the  wildwood,  and  the  world  seemed  kind  to  me  ; 
Yet  the  carols  make  me  lonely,  for  I  think  how  gay  it  seems 
That  I  used  to  be  in  childhood,  when  I  dreamed  my  golden  dreams. 

Raven  locks  are  dimmer  turning,  as  the  years  go  drifting  fast, 
Yet  these  memories  seem  to  fire  me  with  a  pleasure  of  the  past, 
And  my  heart  once  more  grows  merry,  as  I  think  of  days  gone  by 
When  we  two  were  childhood  sweethearts  in  the  daisies,  you  and  I. 

I  can  see  your  sweet  face  smiling,  I  can  hear  your  voice  that  sings, 
I  can  feel  your  gay  lips  wiling,  and  your  loving  arm  that  clings ; 
And  my  life  awakes  with  gladness  as  the  dawn  slips  down  the  vale, 
For  the  wildrose  blooms  in  sunshine  on  the  Morning  Glory  Trail. 


SONG  OF  A  CITY  TRAMP 

Silver  dawn,  I  am  thy  lover !  silver  dusk,  I  am  thy  groom ! 

Silver  hills,  I  am  the  singer  of  your  glee! 
Silver  night,  I  am  thy  watcher  by  the  woodf ire  in  thy  gloom ! 

Silver  moon,  I  am  a  wanderer  with  thee ! 

Yet  for  me  no  trail  is  chiselled  up  the  foothills  to  the  pass ! 

Life  o'  joy,  I  am  thy  exile,  cast  apart! 
Not  for  me  the  joyous  open !    Not  for  me  the  summer  grass ! 

For  the  city  sings  its  music  to  my  heart. 


(  44  ) 


DAWN 

Oeh,  me  bye,  it's  weary  I've  been,  waitin'  the  wild  night  through, 
Waitin'  an'  wailin'  alone  by  the  sea,  wit'  only  the  watch  on  the 

shore ; 
Och,  all  alone,  and  it's  weary  I've  been,  an'  they  bring  me  what's  left 

of  you : 

An'  it's  only  a  bone — but  it's  all  me  own,  an'  flesh  o'  the  flesh  I 
bore. 

Och,  me  bye,  ye  were  all  I  had  left :  ye  said  ye  were  fond  o'  the  gale, 
Lispin'  soft  on  me  mayther-breast,  when  your  heart  was  only  a 

child: 

Said  ye  would  go,  as  your  faythers  had  gone,  an'  let  you  go  for  a  sail ; 
An'  this  is  the  thing  the  fishermen  bring:  an',  och,  but  it  drives  me 
wild. 

Oeh,  me  bye,  I  was  kind  to  you  then,  but  ye  said  ye  would  go  away ; 
An?  I  gave  you  a  crust,  an'  a  kiss  o'  me  heart,  an'  bade  you  return 

to  me! 
But  the  years  are  long,  an'  the  world  is  hard,  an'  tempests  an'  storms 

will  play; 

An'  they  snatched  you,  me  son,  me  adorin'  wan;  an'  your  corse 
came  up  wit'  the  sea. 

Och,  me  bye,  it's  breakin'  me  heart;  it's  broken  it  is — me  song! 

For  never  a  kiss  will  your  cold  lips  cloy,  an'  never  a  jest  ye '11  say ! 
Och,  there's  a  smoitherin'  wail  on  the  seas,  an'  they  tremble  for  doin' 

me  wrong ; 

But  never  remorse  for  your  tortured  corse,  nor  a  murmur  o'  cheer, 
have  they! 

Och,  me  bye,  it 's  afar  from  the  world,  an '  up  from  the  waves  that  rise 
That  your  soul  has  been  garnered  in  Heaven  by  a  God  that  we  all 

adore ; 

Och,  but  it's  desolate  weary  I've  been,  an'  it's  mornin'  before  me  eyes ! 
I've  waited  the  years,  but  they  bring  me  tears — I  pay,  when  ye 
leave  the  shore. 

(  45  ) 


SECOND  SIGHT 

I 

He 

Tossed  in  the  tempest,  on  a  mast, 
My  life  is  but  a  shadow  cast — 

A  star-dust  speck  that  may  prevail, 
Or  that  may  perish  with  the  gale. 
I  think  of  her  upon  the  shore, 
Who  dreams  of  me,  yet  whom  no  more 
My  loving  lips  shall  stoop  to  kiss 
Among  the  purple  evening  mists ! 
Meseems  I  hear  my  deathly  knell — 
To  haven  I  waft — Farewell!  Farewell! 

II 
She 

I  roam  the  beach — it  comforts  me: 

Imagined  faces  throng  the  sea, 

Of  vanished  sailor-souls  who  died, 
Adventuring,  on  the  ocean  wide. 

One  tender-treasured  elfin  face 

Like  a  precious  pearl  beams  through  the  wastes 
"Thy  long  lost  love,"  the  wavebeats  say, 
Dashing  their  enchanted  spray. 

Lone  is  the  land,  and  lone  the  sea ; 

Life  without  love  is  more  lone  to  me ! 


MONARCHY 

A  mother  with  her  happy  babe  sat  rocking  at  a  fire, 

And  all  the  world,  in  reverence,  was  prostrate  at  her  feet ; 
For  over  all  she  ruled  supreme — her  child  her  one  desire, — 

A  momentary  goddess  over  sadness,  and  the  street. 
More  sweet  than  any  other  song,  the  lullaby  she  conned ; 

More  fair  than  fancied  portraiture,  the  beauty  of  her  face ! 
It  seemed  that  angels  must  be  near  for  one  to  croon  so  fond — 

That  God  had  touched  her  spirit  with  the  blessing  of  His  Grace. 

(46) 


THE  SIGN  OF  YAWNING  SKULL 


McDonald  was  dead — so  everyone  said — and  he  lay  stark-cold  on  his 
bier ;  , 

But  his  eyes  got  red,  and  sagged  in  his  head :  he  howled  like  a  thing 
of  fear! 

He  raised  in  bed,  but  everyone  fled,  so  he  drew  a  table  near, 

And  wrote,  instead,  with  nails  that  bled,  the  tale  I  vouch  for  here. 

It  is  chums  were  we — Bill  Gunn,  and  me,  and  the  lady  we  both  called 

Kate; 
And  the  story  goes,  as  a  dead  man  knows,  the  world  was  our  open 

gate; 
For  the  trail  was  ours  from  the  land  of  flowers  to  the  Northland's  icy 

breath, 

And  many  a  day  by  the  danger  way  we  slouched  along  with  death. 
We  made  our  camps  with  stars  for  lamps  amidst  the  ghostly  cold. 
We  picked  and  panned  where  the  windflaws  fanned ;  up  river-ruts  we 

poled. 
We  scudded  free  on  the  frostland  sea,  where  the  peaks  stuck  up  their 

fangs 
And  the  pink  outcrops  from  the  rockridge  tops,  and  the  high  Aurora 

hangs. 

And  all  the  years,  come  toil  or  tears,  through  all  the  ills  we'd  seen, 
We  never  yet  had  quarreled  nor  fret,  nor  had  words  pass  between. 

And  so  it  chanced  as  the  sunfays  danced,  one  frosty  upland  morn, 

Bill  Gunn  and  me  and  Kate  McKee  was  feeling  a  pile  forlorn ; 

For  the  night  before  on  the  dance-hall  floor,  where  the  drones  wheezed 

elbow-deep, 
Some  impish  winch  took  a  mind  to  pinch,  and  prowled  our  pokes  in 

our  sleep. 
We  was  flat  as  sacks,  and  up  on  jacks,  and  'down  on  the  Queen  card 

trumps  ; 
And  Bill,  he  scowls;  and  Kate,  she  growls;  and  I  am  roiled  with 

dumps. 

(  47  ) 


But  Bill,  says  he,  "Just  listen  to  me,"  and  the  green  stuff  showed  in 

his  eyes — 
His  nose  some  pink  with  dance  and  drink,  but  the  look  of  his  eyebrow, 

wise — 
' '  Come,  let  us  go  where  the  sage-winds  blow,  and  Fate  is  asleep  in  the 

sand!" 
So  we  pikes  away,  with  feet  for  a  shay,  to  a  huddled  desert-land. 

Along  the  brink  of  a  silver  sink  we  tracked  a  sandshot  plain. 

The  buzzards  sighed,  the  sandwolves  cried,  the  winds  wailed  out  with 

pain. 
The  sky  drooped  down  on  hills  of  brown,  the  livid  shadows  writhed 

writhed ; 
And  pools  of  slag,  where  winds  would  drag,  soared  up  as  if  they  were 

scythed. 

Th<3  bulging  rocks  shone  up  in  shocks ;  the  vultures  sang  their  woe ; 
The  sun-washed  cliffs  slunk  down  in  drifts  to  the  gaping  plains  below. 
Above  our  trail  the  hills  loomed  pale;  the  sand-imps  romped  their 

crags, 
And  cactus-clumps,  like  buffalo  humps,  stood  parching  among  the 

slags. — 

Yet  on  our  backs  we  bore  Kate's  packs,  as  joyously  as  play, 
For  courted  prize  was  to  our  eyes  to  ease  our  lady's  way. 

Then  Kate,  quoth  she:   "A  realm  I  see,  beneath  the  summit's  frond, 
Where  everything  with  pay  doth  cling  on  hills  and  dells  beyond ! J ' 
We  looked  away :  the  hills  were  gray :  the  desert  burned  our  feet, 
But  down  our  trail  we  saw  a  vale  that  stretched  out  like  a  sheet. 
We  spanned  a  rise;  upon  our  eyes  a  yellow  desert  rolled 
With  hummels  bared  where  yuccas  stared  on  fields  of  shining  gold ! 
The  cliffs  sheered  bluff;  the  desert's  cuff  was  hemmed  with  silver 

seams, 

With  nuggets  spread  like  crumbs  of  bread  along  the  dimlit  streams. 
"Let  Midas'  dust  encave  in  crust*."    (Bill  tossed  aside  his  pack!) 
"We'll  stake  our  claims,  and  write  our  names,  and  take  some  glitter 

back!" 

Kate,  she  is  dumb ;  I  chew  my  thumb ;  Bill  lifts  his  pickax  high, 
And  chucks  a  stake  down  in  the  cake,  and  claims  all  to  the  sky. 

(  48  ) 


But  Kate,  she  rucks,  as  big  as  ducks :  "That's  my  claim,  Bill"  says  she. 
So  up  Bill  jumps,  and  on  his  humps,  and  scowls,  and  says,  says  he : 
"What's  this  I  hear?    Have  patience,  dear!    There's  gold  here  for  us 

all!" 

But  Kate  stands  pat,  and  quick  as  scat  she  sinks  right  down  to  bawl. 
Bill  Gunn,  he  frowns ;  Kate  glints  her  browns ;  I  smiles  upon  her — so ! 
She  smiles  and  sighs,  and  meets  my  eyes,  and  hangs  on  my  elbow. 
"I  like  you,  Me!"  she  whispers  back.    I  smacks  her  on  the  cheek. 
Kate  glints  her  browns,  and  Bill,  he  frowns,  and  in  he  starts  to  speak. 
"I  say,  it's  mine,"  Kate  starts  to  whine,  and  so  I  looks  my  worst; 
Though  Bill  contends,  as  we  are  friends,  it  hurts  none  if  he 's  first. 
But  Kate,  she  scowls,  and  whoops  and  howls,  as  if  her  heart  will 

break ; 
And  so,  says  I:  "Bill,  friends  ain't  why!    You'll  have  to  move  your 

stake." 

He  wants  to  wait — says  he  to  Kate :  *  *  Come,  Kate  ,dear,  cool  the  row ! ' ' 
But  Kate,  she  sighs,  and  rubs  her  eyes,  and  wails,  "That's  my  claim, 

now. ' ' 

"Well !  Kate,  she  won 't,  and  Bill,  he  don 't :  my  pickax  weighs  a  ton ; 
So  up  I  swings  and  down  I  bring  the  thing  and  kills  Bill  Gunn. 

I  took  my  pick  and  hollowed  quick  a  grave  among  the  gold. 
I  prodded  Bill — his  heart  was  still — his  nose  was  blue  and  cold. 
We  buried  him — the  desert  rim  grew  shot  with  blood  and  fire. 
The  winds  complained — Kate's  face  was  pained — Bill  grunted  in  his 

byre. 

I  looked  at  Kate — her  face  grew  straight;  she  wept  at  what  I'd  done. 
The  desert  howled,  and  Bill  he  growled,  and  redly  glimmed  the  sun. 
Yet  there  we  kissed  in  the  bloody  mist  that  fumed  around  Bill 's  grave. 
Amid  the  musk  of  desert  dusk  we  vowed  we  would  be  brave. 
"I'll  do  my  worst,"  Kate  fondly  burst;  says  I, "Let's  name  the  mine — • 
What  could  we  claim  without  a  name,  where  never  is  a  sign  ? ' ' 
So  Kate,  she  thinks;  Bill's  byre,  it  shrinks;  the  wind  whines  like  a 

gull. 
"I  move,"  says  I— (Bill  heaves  a  sigh)— "THE  SIGN  OF  YAWNING 

SKULL." 


(  49  ) 


We  staked  the  mine  from  the  summit  line,  where  the  rise  and  ridge 

made  one, 

To  the  cuddled  hills  where  sunflame  spills  its  dazzle  down  the  run. 
We  piled  a  hill  of  gold  on  Bill  that  glimmered,  gleaming  high, 
And  covered  him  till  his  blood  grew  dim,  and  the  gleam  went  out  of 

his  eye. 

But  Kate  she  frowned  and  on  the  ground  she  fell  beside  the  dead 
And  lay  alone  like  a  thing  of  stone,  and  never  a  word  she  said. 
Bill  Gunn,  he  cried,  and  hollow-eyed,  he  glared  from  out  the  pit ; 
And  so  I  turned — my  bosom  burned — I  slouched  away  from  it. 
I  heard  Kate  scream — I  felt  the  gleam  of  eyes  that  pierced  me  through. 
The  hot  sky  drooped — a  buzzard  swooped,  and  over  me  he  flew. 
I  screamed  to  Kate:   "Alack,  my  fate — my  fate  is  on  me,  dear!" 
But  Kate,  she  cried,  and  wailed  and  sighed,  and  swift  my  eyes  grew 

blear. 

"Alas!  Alack!"    I  dropped  my  pack.    Back  to  the  grave  I  ran. 
But  Kate  lay  still  upon  the  hill,  for  she  had  loved  the  man. 
"If  I  had  known,"  I  tried  to  moan ;  my  throat  grew  parched  and  dry. 
"  If  I  had  thought ! ' '  My  tongue  seemed  caught,  and  Kate  would  only 

cry. 

I  grabbed  her  hand,  and  down  the  sand  we  fled  by  rise  and  run : 
Beneath  our  feet  the  sand  throbs  beat;  above  us  flamed  the  sun. 
"Oh  Kate!"  I  said— my  spirit  bled— "If  I  had  only  known!" 
She  hung  her  face  and  down  the  wastes  her  vision  scanned  alone. 

Across  the  land  a  wizard's  hand  swept  clouds  of  pouring  blood. 
Upon  the  South  a  dragon's  mouth  spit  gore  in  shrouding  scud. 
Upon  the  North  a  blazing  scorth  of  fire  came  furling  down. 
Upon  the  West  the  sand-hag's  breast  was  seared  with  streaks  of 

brown. 

Yet  dim  and  pale  upon  our  trail  we  met  a  host  of  men 
That  journeyed  down  the  hills  of  brown  with  laughter  now  and  then, 
A  merry  crew  of  ruddy  hue,  with  lips  and  eyes  divine, 
Along  the  quest  that  knows  no  rest  till  love  has  found  its  shrine. 
And  with  them  there  were  women  fair  with  joyous  lisp  and  smile 
And  children  sweet  with  trudging  feet,  and  laughter  to  beguile; 
Forever  on,  forever  gone  upon  the  ways  of  love, 
That  heeds  no  gale  and  knows  no  fail,  and  is  true  as  heaven  above. 

(  50  ) 


My  bosom  yearned :   To  Kate  I  turned :   She  wept  with  broken  heart, 
An  outcast,  she,  to  love  or  glee,  ordained  to  dwell  apart. 
For  us  these  spurned !    Alas,  none  turned  to  heed  us  as  we  fled, 
And  so  we  spanned  the  helpless  land,  and  on,  and  on,  we  sped. — 
And  then  Kate  fell :  Fate  rang  her  knell :  she  died  among  the  sands ; 
I. heaped  a  mound  of  sand  around;  then  staggered  down  the  lands. 

And  so  at  last  as  day  was  past  I  sighted  far  a  light, 
And  down  a  run  I  wheeled  and  spun,  and  raced  toward  the  night. 
Along  a  hill  beside  a  rill  I  found  a  herdsman's  hut 
With  bleating  sheep  upon  a  steep,  a  sheepfold  in  a  rut. 
I  tried  to  speak — a  maudlin  shriek  was  all  my  voice  would  make. 
I  tried  to  sing — my  lips  would  cling:    I  gargled  like  a  snake. 
Along  a  draw  my  wild  brain  saw  some  herders  going  home. 
I  scarce  could  wait — I  reached  a  gate — my  mouth  was  dry  with  foam. 
The  herdsmen  shrunk  from  me  and  slunk  as  from  a  leper's  hand. 
My  spirits  fell :   I  hear  a  knell  of  death  sound  down  the  sand. 
Across  the  wastes  there  swept  a  face,  and  close  on  me  it  ran — 
A  steel-gray  shape,  with  eyes  of  grape !    The  spirit  of  a  man  !— 
Hot  on  my  trail !    It  gives  a  wail !  The  herdsmen  all  were  still ! 
It  shakes  its  head,  and  strikes  me  dead  with  one  weak  hand!     It's 
Bill! 

And  this  I  plead  of  you  who  read  and  may  not  shirk  to  mind : 
Love  is  a  game  whose  joy  or  shame  you  ever  leave  behind. 
For  every  vice  we  pay  our  price — each  sin  will  bring  its  sigh; 
And  last  of  all  before  my  call  is  come,  and  I  do  die: 
Before  you  have  sold  your  friend  for  gold,  some  lady's  love  to  win, 
Think  of  the  jade  whose  vows  you  both  paid,  and  the  woman  she 
might  have  been. 

McDonald  was  dead,  so  everyone  said — he  was,  but  they  did  not  know. 
But  his  eyes  got  red  and  sagged  in  his  head ;  he  howled  like  an  anvil- 
blow! 

He  raised  in  bed,  but  everyone  fled ;  he  called,  but  none  would  go ; 
So  he  wrote  instead  with  nails  that  bled  this  selfsame  tale  of  woe. 


(  51  ) 


KINGSHIP 

When  the  roses  of  summer  are  faded  and  dead, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  autumn  are  turning  to  red — 
When  the  last  word  of  friendship  is  spoken  and  told, 
And  we  part  from  the  clasp  of  the  hand  that  we  hold — 
Shall  our  lips  dare  to  sing,  when  our  breasts  hold  a  dart, 
As  the  pain  of  farewell  turns  to  grief  in  the  heart  ? 
For  the  lover  must  sigh, 

And  the  singer  must  sing, 
Yet  the  lover  must  die, — 
But  the  singer  is  king! 

When  the  last  singing  lover  is  silent  and  dead, 
And  we  lay  the  last  wreath  of  our  love  at  his  head — 
When  the  last  loving  singer  is  songless  and  still, 
And  he  crumbles  to  dust  in  his  grave  on  the  hill, — 
Can  we  ever  forget  how  their  lays  used  to  preen 
With  the  joy  of  a  kiss  from  the  lips  of  a  queen? 
For  the  lover  must  sigh, 

And  the  singer  must  sing, 
Yet  the  lover  must  die, — 
But  the  singer  is  king! 


LOVE  IN  A  CAFE 

I  come  here  often,  for  I  like  the  singing, 
To  loll  at  dimlit  tables  with  my  wine ; 

Because  the  singer,  to  her  carols  clinging, 
Is,  well — a  rather  favored  friend  of  mine. 

For  I  am  old,  and  slow,  while  she  is  merry ; 

But  see !  her  features  fill  my  heart  with  woe ! 
Ah,  in  my  wine  my  old  regrets  I  bury — 

I  loved  her  mother,  twenty  years  ago. 


(  52  ) 


A  JOB  FOE  EVERYBODY 

Plug  away!   Plug  away! 

What 's  the  use  o '  whinin '  ? 
Can't  you  see  it's  dawn  o'  day? 
Look,  the  sun  is  shinin'! 
What's  the  use  o'  haggling 
Peel  your  coat,  an'  buckle  in! 
Laziness  is  more'n  sin! 
Idleness  is  pinin'J 

Do  it  now!   Do  it  now! 
May  be  no  tomorrow ! 
Show  the  other  fellow  how ! 
Bear  his  pain  an'  sorrow ! 
Man's  a  needy  brotherhood : 
Everybody,  if  he  would, 
Might  lend  other  people  good — 
Wouldn't  need  to  borrow. 

Grub  along !  Grub  along ! 

Whistle  like  you  meant  it ! 
Tell  a  joke,  an'  sing  a  song : 
No  one  will  resent  it ! 

Lend  a  lift,  an'  don't  be  tight! 
Hoardin'  joy  was  never  right! 
Treat  the  other  fellow  white ! 
Keep  life  like  God  lent  it ! 

Hit  the  grit !  Hit  the  grit ! 

Tumble  to  an'  tussle! 
Grab  a  hold,  an '  tote  your  bit ! 
How's  the  time  to  rustle ! 

No  one  cares  to  hear  your  groans : 
Change  your  growls  for  gayer  tones! 
Don't  be  just  a  bag  o'  bones! 
Get  to  work,  an'  hustle! 

(  53  ) 


LE  SACROSANT 

I  was  down  by  the  edge  of  the  sea,  that  night ; 

And  the  dim  east  basked  in  the  glinting  moon ; 
On  the  headland  glimmered  the  siren-light, 

And  the  fishermen  seined  in  the  dim  lagoon. 

The  surges  moaned  as  they  rose  and  fell 

In  the  half -hushed  wake  of  a  passing  breeze ; 

And  down  from  the  cliffs  came  a  temple  bell 
From  its  tower  among  the  magnolia  trees. 

As  you  scan  from  the  shore  to  the  ivied  wall 
Of  the  cliff-steep  headland,  pale  as  a  ghost, 

You  can  see  a  marbled  convent  hall, 
As  lone  as  a  hermit  upon  the  dim  coast. 

And  often  at  night  from  the  dimlit  cliffs 
You  can  hear  the  strains  of  a  lonely  song, 

That  wails  down  the  shores  and  windy  drifts ; 
And  its  lingering  echoes  murmur  long. 

It  made  me  think  of  another  night 

Of  those  other  years — I  was  younger,  then ! 

With  the  singing  sea,  and  the  white  moonlight, 
And  the  laughing  jests  of  the  fishermen. 

"Ah,  you  have  come,  at  last,"  she  said; 

And  she  touched  my  lips  like  a  fairy 's  wing ; 
And  the  dew  gleamed  on  her  hooded  head 

As  she  clung  to  me,  there,  an  elfin  thing. 

I  do  not  remember  how  long  it  was ; 

It  could  not  have  been  long — half-an-hourglass  run  !- 
And  the  dim  stars  jeweled  the  stirring  grass 

As  I  clasped  to  my  breast  a  virgin  nun. 


(54) 


"I  have  painted  a  picture,"  I  said  to  her; 

"She  is  fair  as  a  goddess  in  Heaven  above, 
And  she  sits  in  the  amphitheater, 

Saying  the  rosary  of  her  love." 

She  was  smiling  to  me,  with  her  lips  upturned, 
And  her  face  was  a  chalice  of  glowing  wine ; 

And  a  flaming  love  in  my  bosom  yearned 
To  this  virgin  nun,  whose  love  was  mine. 

It  was  over,  then ;  and  I  went  away, 
Along  the  path,  to  the  mourning  sea ; 

She  waved  her  hand ;  and  I  heard  her  say : 
"Forgive,  forget;  but  it  cannot  be!" 

And  then  came  her  years  in  the  convent  hall, 
And  the  passioned  faces  my  brush  had  made, 

But  of  nights  she  sang  at  the  vesper  call, 
And  I  heard  her  far  in  the  gloaming  glade. 

But  now  I  shall  hear  her  song  no  more: 
She  dies  in  the  chancel,  in  her  tears ; 

And  I  am  wailing  along  the  shore, 

Lost,  like  a  starbeam  in  boundless  spheres. 

Are  the  vows  of  nuns  such  ghastly  things 
That  the  vows  of  a  human  love  must  die  ? 

It  is  moonlit  tonight,  and  the  gay  tide  sings ; 
But  our  hearts  are  broken,  my  nun  and  I. 


(  55  ) 


SPRING  IN  THE  UPLANDS 

Winter  fades  from  the  passes, 

Summits  and  peaks  grow  bare, 
And  a  soft  warm  wind  harasses 

The  tree-tops  everywhere. 
Awake  is  the  mountain  brooklet, 

And  the  hidden  ripples  sing, 
And  a  cricket  chirps  in  the  nooklet 

At  the  love-call  of  the  Spring. 

Spring,  when  the  heart  beats  truer, 

And  gladness  awakes  from  sleep ! 
Spring,  when  the  skies  are  bluer, 

And  the  winds  of  April  weep. 
Spring,  and  the  Summer's  warning 

That  spills  through  the  field  by  day, 
Till  the  last  lone  April  Morning 

That  longs  for  the  flowers  of  May. 

Tempest  is  past  and  over; 

Earth  is  bereft  of  regret. 
Springtime  has  come,  her  lover, 

To  sow  Earth 's  womb  with  fret. 
Our  countless  hopes  reflourish; 

Our  joyous  songs  we  sing, 
In  the  peace  that  our  pleasures  nourish 

On  the  breast  of  the  passioned  Spring. 

And  the  Spring  forever  calls  us 

And  we  cannot  but  follow  its  lure 
To  flee  from  the  cloister  that  walls  us 

And  roam  over  meadow  and  moor. 
For  a  strange  rest  fills  the  spirit, 

And  the  wan  winds  bring  no  tear, 
Till  our  very  desires  endear  it, 

And  we  sing  to  the  newborn  year. 

(56) 


A  ROSE  OF  OLD  GHAMPOEG 

On  a  far  frontier,  in  olden  times, 
Stood  a  rude  log  church,  with  a  brazen  chimes, 
Where  the  faithful  villagers  came  to  pray 
With  the  wanderer  from  far  away. 
There  were  settlers  came,  and  trappers,  too, 
There  were  madamoiselles,  with  eyes  of  blue. 
There  were  reckless  men,  that  left  their  arts 
For  a  blessing  of  God  to  fill  their  hearts, 
Kneeling  in  worship  penitent, 
Bowing  their  heads  for  sacrament, 
As  Vaucaire,  the  Good  Priest,  would  say, 
' '  0  Domine,  absolve  me ! ' ' 

Out  in  the  village,  Constance  played, 
A  wanton  damsel,  undismayed 
By  thoughts  of  duty,  of  care,  or  sin — 
Only  a  waif  kind  words  would  win. 
She  lived  where  the  blacksmith's  anvil  rang; 
But  Sunday  morn,  when  the  church-chimes  sang 
And  the  village  hushed  to  a  silent  dream 
As  the  voyageurs  sang  down  the  stream, 
The  wanton  damsel  crept  away 
To  the  village  burial-ground  to  pray. 
And  while  the  Good  Priest  spoke  of  grace, 
The  wanton  wept  in  the  burial  place ; 
For  a  grief  was  hers  she  could  not  say : 
Her  father,  who  knew?    Had  he  gone  away? 
Her  mother  had  sinned,  as  some  will  do, 
And  died  in  shame,  as  the  Good  Priest  knew, 
Unshriven,  unblest,  in  her  last  wild  breath, 
As  she  kissed  her  shame  with  lips  of  death. 
Constance,  the  child,  was  the  price  she  paid; 
And  Constance  knew:    It  was  why  she  strayed 
To  the  tombs,  when  the  faithful  went  to  pray, 
' '  0  Domine,  absolve  me ! ' ' 

(57) 


Now  the  Good  Priest  wore  upon  his  breast 
A  silver  Cross  the  Pope  had  blest 
That  dangled,  swinging  to  and  fro 
A  bleeding  manchrist,  torn  with  woe. 
The  faithful  villagers  loved  the  Priest, 
Who  gladdened  their  hearts  in  fast  and  feast ; 
And  they  loved  the  Cross,  for  Christ  was  there: 
Bending  their  knees  before  Vaucaire, 
Baring  their  heads,  when  they  chanced  to  meet, 
Crossing  their  breasts,  at  the  Good  Priest's  feet; 
And  the  fame  of  the  Cross  was  far  and  wide, 
A  talisman  of  the  countryside. 
But  the  wanton  damsel  they  scorned  to  see, 
As  they  came  to  prayers  in  the  sacristy; 
For  she  loved  not  the  virgin's  face, 
Nor  came  to  the  prayers  in  the  holy  place: 
She  laughed  at  the  water  Vaucaire  blessed; 
Chided  the  faithful  one,  crossing  his  breast; 
Jeered  at  the  candles  Vaucaire  kept  bright 
At  the  chancel-door,  from  morn  till  night ! 
But  ah !  when  the  chants  of  the  worship  rose, 
Constance  would  sing  to  the  last  note's  close, 
Reminding  them  there  of  another  child 
Who  once  had  sung  so,  undefiled. 
And  so  they  smiled  to  the  Good  Vaucaire 
As  they  came  from  afar  to  worship  there ; 
But  for  Constance,  only  a  word  had  they — 
"0  Domine,  absolve  me!" 

One  day  of  prayers,  the  Cross  was  gone — 

Vaucaire  pined  from  early  dawn 

Till  the  evening-hush,  in  the  bitter  loss 

Of  his  sacred  talisman,  the  Cross ; 

Yet  never  a  trace  did  he  chance  to  find — 

"Ah,  it  is  gone!"  he  said,  resigned. 

"Who  stole  the  Cross?"  the  weaver  sighed. 

"Who  stole  the  Cross?"  mourned  Lapere  Conuyd. 

Constance  was  asked — she  would  not  deny: 

"What  need  of  a  Cross  to  such  as  I?"— 

(  58  ) 


The  faithful  shared  in  the  Good  Priest's  woe: 
"Father,  forgive;  we  do  not  know!" 
Just  without  the  chancel-door, 
A  tame  rosevine  its  incense  bore 
Bleeding  its  fragrance  upon  the  air 
Of  the  sacristy,  and  the  chancel,  there. 
No  villager  dared  to  touch  the  bower, 
For  a  curse  was  his  who  should  snatch  a  flower. 
The  rose  was  holy — so  said  Vaucaire — 
And  the  faithful,  as  they  came  to  prayer, 
Would  bend  a  knee,  and  bow  the  head, 
Crossing  their  breasts,  as  if  in  dread, 
Devoutly  saying  a  holy  verse, 
Lest  theirs  should  be  the  sinner's  curse — 
One  might  have  smiled  to  hear  them  say, 
"0  Domine,  absolve  me!" 

So  evening  came,  this  holy  day. 
The  winds  were  still;  the  birds  were  gay; 
In  the  river  woods  a  wildfowl  crew ; 
And  the  voyageurs  sang  of  Charlefoux. 
The  livid  flare  of  sunset  flame 
Glimmered  upon  Le  Praire  Grand  Dame ; 
At  the  chancel-door,  where  all  might  see, 
Vaucaire  was  telling  his  rosary. 
Constance  played  about  the  mound 
That  stood  apart  in  the  burial  ground, 
Within  the  walls  of  the  taregrown  plot, 
That  all,  it  seemed,  but  she,  forgot. 
Conuyd,  the  blacksmith,  at  his  door, 
Staring  across  to  the  river  shore, 
Watched  the  child  in  the  churchyard,  there: 
Saw  her  run  to  the  vine  and  tear 
A  forbidden  blossom  from  its  place 
And  bear  it  back  to  the  burial  space — 
And  his  lips  half-moved,  as  if  to  say, 
"0  Domine,  absolve  me!" 


(59) 


He  called  Vaucaire,  and  the  Good  Priest  came, 
And  the  villagers,  to  the  grave  of  shame ; 
Where  they  found  the  damsel  upon  the  moss, 
Digging  the  turf  with  a  silver  cross. 
"She  stole  the  Cross!"  the  weaver  said; 
But  the  Good  Priest  only  hung  his  head, 
Watching  the  child,  and  his  eyes  grew  dim; 
And  the  villagers  stood  watching  him. 
"Here  is  your  Cross!"  the  wanton  sighed; 
The  Good  Priest  knelt,  and  strove  to  hide 
A  pensive  tear ;  and  the  faithful  there 
Knelt  by  him,  as  he  breathed  a  prayer : — 
"I  found  it  here,"  the  wanton  smiled. 
"I  lost  it  here,"  the  Good  Priest  wiled— 
' '  I  lost  it — I  had  come  to  pray : 
0  Domine,  absolve  me!" 


QUEST 

I 

Only  a  wave  with  a  tattered  crest — 

Only  a  wind  that's  free — 
Only  the  blaze  of  a  burning  west — 

Evening  falls  asea; 
Only  a  ship  with  a  silver  sail — 

Only  a  mast  that  bends — 
Only  the  voice  of  the  singing  gale — 

Calmly  the  night  descends. 

II 
Only  a  light  on  a  shore  afar — 

Only  a  port  that  gleams — 
Only  the  wail  of  the  harbor  bar 

And  a  sailor-heart  that  dreams — 
Only  a  soul  that  sighs  alone — 

Darkly  as  daylight  dulls — 
Only  a  lover  that  seeks  his  own — 

Only  the  song  of  gulls. 

(  60  ) 


TO  A  DEAD  SWALLOW 

Alas !  Poor  Little  Heart !   And  I  had  loved  him  so ! 

My  waking  dawns  shall  hear  his  voice  no  more; 

His  silver  caroling  no  longer  shall  implore 
To  me  as  if  to  bid  me  let  him  go. 
I  touch  his  cage,  yet  vainly  wait  reply; 

He  flutters  not  (as  if  in  joy)  from  me. 

His  song  is  silent  that  once  sang  merrily 
And  through  his  flutish  cage  sad  breezes  sigh. 

— 0  Little  Heart,  I  mourn  that  thou  art  gone! 

Perchance  another  voice  will  sing  sweet  lays 
To  cheer  me  in  the  waking  peace  of  dawn, 
Goodfaring  me  upon  my  troubled  ways ; 
Yet  never  shall  a  lyric  throat  impart 
Thy  hopes,  thy  cheers  to  me,  dear  Little  Heart. 


THE  LYRE  OF  LIFE 

Bend  to  the  lute:    Let  the  soul  respond 
To  the  glamour  and  lilt  of  a  lay, 

For  the  heart  of  the  singer  is  ever  fond, 
And  the  heart  of  the  listener  gay. 

Bend  to  the  lute:    and  the  inmost  voice 
Of  primitive  glamour  and  glee 

Shall  bear  to  thy  fancies  a  cause  to  rejoice, 
And  a  spirit  of  gladness  to  thee. 

Bend  to  the  lute,  for  springtime  comes, 
And  flowers  the  purple-ravine; 

Music  awakens  its  pipes  and  drums, 
And  a  robin  song  sounds  between. 

Bend  to  the  lute,  lest  the  cords  of  they  heart 
Shall  bind  thee  too  well  to  the  throng! 

Drain  with  the  intricate  skill  of  thy  art 
Youth's  wine-chalice  into  thy  song! 

(  61  ) 


A  PILGRIM  OF  THE  UPLANDS 

Forty  below  in  the  uplands,  and  the  wind  was  bitter  keen! 
I  sat  at  my  frosted  window,  and  the  snow  was  a  silver  sheen ! 
Fang-peaks  gnawed  the  steely  sky,  and  the  moonlight  glared  between ! 

Out  in  the  wind-washed  barrens,  where  the  trees  drooped  ghostly-pale, 
I  scanned  the  snow-spread  chuchyard  that  gleamed  in  the  dazzled 

vale, 
Where  the  village  dead  lay  sleeping  by  the  side  of  the  upland  trail. 

I  could  hear  a  far  wolf  wailing  his  melancholy  tone ; 

But  out  among  the  silent  tombs,  where  gleams  of  moonlight  shone, 

I  saw  the  twisted  figure  of  a  man  who  walked  alone. 

He  stooped  hard  at  the  shoulders,  and  crouched  amid  the  gloom; 
Would  pause  at  some  dim  monument,  but  soon  again  resume 
His  half -mysterious  journey;  then  he  knelt  down  by  a  tomb. 

Everyone  knows  the  story  of  the  girl  that  is  buried  there. 
Men  called  her  a  flaxen  beauty,  with  a  proud,  but  loving,  air. 
She  was  shot  dead  in  a  cabin  on  the  banks  of  the  Little  Bear. 

It  is  said  she  loved  Tom  Gavin,  and  Crippled  Jones  she  spurned; 
Though — they  have  it — Jones  was  the  truer:  that  Jones  from  trail 

returned 
As  she  lay  in  the  arms  of  Gavin,  while  the  light  in  the  cabin  burned. 

And  so  as  she  lisped  to  her  lover,  a  shot  rang  out  in  the  dark, 
That  shattered  the  cabin  window,  and  whispered  death  to  its  mark ; 
And  the  girl  fell  back  on  the  table,  and  lay  there  stiff,  and  stark. 

Such  was  the  simple  story  of  the  tomb  of  Lil  Baveau. 

The  only  trace  of  the  murderer  was  the  print  of  a  twisted  shoe. 

But  he  who  had  lost  her,  and  slain  her?  all  men  in  the  uplands  knew. 

(  62  ) 


Gold  was  laid  for  his  capture ;  bounty  was  laid  for  his  bones. 
Men  of  the  hills  were  surly,  and  railed  him  in  bitter  tones— 
As  a  word  of  shame  in  the  uplands  was  the  name  of  Outlaw  Jones. 

It  was  years  since  a  word  of  the  murderer,  except  the  night  before 
A  dagger  had  sunk  like  an  arrow  through  a  panel  of  Gavin's  door 
As  Gavin  romped  at  the  hearthrug,  with  his  babe,  on  the  cabin  floor. 

As  I  thought  of  this  I  watched  the  man  in  the  lonely  burial  row, 
When  suddenly  I  saw  him  rise  in  the  moonlight's  dimming  glow, 
And  lift  his  hands  in  an  unheard  prayer  by  the  tomb  there  in  the  snow. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  stagger,  and  out  of  the  tombs  he  stalked. 
He  stumbled  toward  my  cabin :  like  a  heartless  gnome  he  walked. 
His  lips  I  could  see  were  moving,  yet  I  heard  not  the  things  he  talked. 

I  let  him  in  at  the  threshold,  and  the  heartlog's  fitful  glare 

Lighted  his  face  like  a  dead  man's ;  I  saw  he  was  wrinkled  with  care : 

His  features  were  darkened  and  lowering,  eyes  set  hard  in  a  stare. 

' '  Come,  have  a  seat  at  the  table  ! ' '  But  he  waved  me  off  with  his  hand, 
Muttering  something  indistinct  I  could  not  quite  understand. 
He  crouched  like  a  dog  at  the  hearthlog,  warming  a  knotted  hand. 

"You  are  a  priest,"  he  queried,  peering  deep  in  my  eye. 

I  nodded.    ' '  Yes,  if  you  like,  sir. ' '    And  his  bosom  fell  in  a  sigh. 

The  wind,  outside  in  the  barrens,  sang  like  a  gull  in  the  sky. 

I  scanned  him  there  for  a  moment,  but  strove  in  vain  to  place 

His  rugged  hardened  features  (though  I  thought  I  had  seen  the  face.) 

I  heard  him  groan  and  murmur,  and  he  seemed  in  a  kind  of  a  daze. 

The  wind  was  whining  drearily,  and  shook  the  cabin  door  j 

It  wailed  like  mad    in  the  chimney  with  a  hideous  sort  of  a  roar ; 

And  the  fire  sent  imps  of  crimson  to  dancing  upon  the  floor. 

"Just  been  out  in  the  churchyard,"  the  stranger  stammered,  and  said. 
"Lil  Raveau  is  buried  there."    He  stared  where  the  hearthlog  bled, 
Cowering  low  before  the  flames,  and  his  face  was  lighted  red. 

(63  ) 


"Lil!    She  used  to  call  to  me — she  calls  me,  even  yet; 

And  often  I  fancy  I  see  her,  and  her  eyes  are  tearful,  and  wet. 

I  came  to  her  tomb,  a  pilgrim,  to  a  shrine  of  an  old  regret. 

' '  I  went  last  night  for  Gavin — but  he  had  a  babe  in  his  hands. 
After  a  man  has  borne  his  death,  he  always  understands : 
I  only  pierced  the  door  with  a  dagger!"    He  was  looking  into  the 
brands. 

"Lil  was  my  sweetheart,  Father;  then  I  married  her,  here. 

No  one  knew;  then  she  sinned  with  Gavin — I  knew  not  for  nearly  a 

year. 
I  had  come  that  night  to  the  window,  and  the  firelight  was  very  clear. 

' '  She  lay  in  his  arms,  in  the  cabin — everyone  knows  the  rest. 

I  came  once  more  to  pray  by  her  grace. ' '    His  face  was  sorely  strest ; 

And  the  wind  and  the  fire  were  sobbing :  the  murderer  had  confessed. 


MOUNT  HOOD 

Dim  crags  lift  up  along  the  east, 

But  all  the  land  is  lone  and  still ; 

Beauty,  like  a  heavenly  priest, 

Rules  white  upon  the  highest  hill ! 

There  is  no  stir  in  all  the  land, 

Nor  ought  but  silence,  anywhere ; 

For  earth  lies  just  as  Nature's  hand 
Bestowed  her  ray  of  beauty  there. 

Along  the  distant  open  lea, 

A  pool  of  valley  mist  hangs  low, 

That  hides  a  realm  of  gleams  from  me, 
Where  all  is  joyfulness,  I  know. 

And  high  athwart  the  glinting  field 

A  chalk  gnome  towers  through  the  trees, 

Where  Time  has  graved  on  Nature's  shield 
His  embonpoint  of  centuries. 

(  64  ) 


SAILING  OUT  OF  BALTIMORE 

Staunch  of  keel,  to   brave  the  weather; 

Slender-masted;  prows  agleam; 
Stout  of  sail,  and  free  of  tether; 

Dance  the  galleys  on  the  stream; 
Down  the  shining  glow  of  river, 

Gleaming-blue,   from  shore  to  shore, 
Out  toward   the   sea,   forever, 

Sail  the  ships  of  Baltimore. 

Dripping-wet  with  azure  offing, 

Where  the  whitecaps  glitter  bright, 
And  the  sweetened  surge  is  coughing 

Deathly  hoarse  from  morn  till  night, 
Swift  they  glide,  as  gulls  that  flutter, 

Dancing  past  the  dewy  shore, 
To  the  seas  that  wail  and  mutter — 

Merry  ships  of  Baltimore ! 

Now  their  saltened  sheets  awaken; 

Famished  tide-rips  sweep  them  fast, 
Down  the  gurly  sounds  betaken, 

Beckoned  fondly  by  the   blast. 
Glinting  ripples  frolic   'round  them; 

Through  their  ropes  the  breezes  roar; — 
Jovial  destiny  redound  them, 

Sturdy  ships   of  Baltimore ! 

Noon  and  night,  by  mistlights  gleaming, 

Ever  sailing  far  and  free, 
Blinding  beacons,  blearly  beaming, 

Light  their  journey  out  to  sea; 
Ever  outward,  onward  veering, 

By  the  sobbing  wastes  of  shore, 
Hard  into  the  billows  steering — 

Bonny  ships  of  Baltimore ! 

(  65  ) 


\ 

By  a  thousand  shores  and  moorlands 

Shall  their  reeking  cargoes  fall, 
Questing  far  and  lonely  lurelands, 

As  a  swallow  at  their  call! 
Beacons,  guide  them  safely,  leaward, 

Bear  them  boldly  with  their  store! — 
Bonny  hazard,  greet  them  seaward, 

Sailing  out  of  Baltimore! 


BERLETA 


On  the  Hills  of  Manzanita  stands  Berleta — 

But  she  only  gathers  sticks,  and  keeps  her  fire ; 
And  the  breakers  sing  below, 
But  she  sings  not,  in  her  woe  ; 
And  her  heart  is  very  heavy  with  desire. 

There  was  one  in  Manzanita  loved  Berleta; 
But  he  killed  a  companero,  did  her  hero! 
And  across  the  singing  spray 
He  is  prisoned  up  to  stay ; 
And  his  name  is  Carmenita  Bandocero. 

On  the  isle,  a  donjonero,  pines  her  hero — 

But  he  only  thinks  of  love,  and  he  is  still ; 
And  the  breakers  sing  below, 
But  he  sings  not,  in  his  woe; 
For  he  sees  her  gleaming  fire  upon  the  hill. 

He  has  killed  a  companero,  has  her  hero, 
On  the  Hills  of  Manzanita,  for.  Berleta ; 

But  he  whistles  light  and  gay 

To  the  fire  across  the  bay; 
And  she  thinks  him  very  dear,  oh !  does  Berleta. 

(  66  ) 


THE  BRIDE  OF  GERRO  60RDO 

In  the  Hills  of  Cerro  Gordo,  by  the  Colorado's  tide, 
Stands  a  convent-house  that  towers  through  the  shadows  of  the 

gorge, 
Veiled  with  mists  from  out  the  canyons,  where  a  Titan  blows  his 

forge, 

Peering  down  the  yellow  chasms  with  the  mockery  of  pride. 
In  the  narrow  prisoned  chancels  torpid  rosaries  are  telling, 

In  the  hands  of  lonely  hearts  that  love  the  merry  world  no  more. 
Dawn  of  day  can  hear  them  praying;  sunset  hears  their  murmurs 

welling, 
By  the  broken-hearted  grandeur  of  the  Colorado  shore. 

Down  the  cliffs  the  shadows  flutter,  and  the  dimming  ripples  sigh ; 

Gasping  songs  of  desolation  echo  sadly  up  the  walls ; 

With  a  note  of  mirthless  laughter  high  a  wheeling  eagle  calls 
To  the  dumb,  dream-haunted  garden  from  the  glory  of  the  sky. 
Solitary  breezes  swirl  like  raving  imps  across  the  mesas ; 

Cubloid  masses  of  gray  ruin  bare  their  hummels  to  the  sun; 
And  the  house  stares  down  upon  it,  silent  as  the  graven  Jesus 

As  he  suffers  in  the  chancel  where  His  Holy  Will  is  done. 

In  a  giddy  convent  window,  where  the  crags  vault  sheer  away, 
Stands  the  figure  of  a  woman,  scanning  where  the  desert  lies: 
Elfin  mistlights  dance  below  her ;  impish  shimmers  blear  her  eyes , 

Yet  she  speaks  not,  only  gazes  where  the  basking  vistas  play. 

See!  her  locks  are  deeply  raven;  there's  a  flower  at  her  bosom — 
Ah !  she  kisses  it  with  gladness,  for  it  brings  a  joy  to  her ! 

Deep  she  breathes  the  soothing  fragrance  from  the  chalice  of  its 

blossom, 
Gazing  like  a  lonely  goddess  down  the  desert-theater. 

She  is  silent !    She  is  broken !    And  her  reverie  is  woe, 
Is  a  vagary  of  grief,  wherein  the  imps  of  sadness  play: 
She  is  thinking  of  her  lover  that  has  wooed  her  in  the  May, 

Far  away  from  Cerro  Gordo,  dim  remembered  days  ago. 

(  67  ) 


To  her  heart  comes  recollection  of  his  pledge  of  true  devotion : 
Moonlit  night — a  soft  guitar — a  night  of  love  among  the  sands. 

Ere  she  came  into  the  convent  and  his  ship  sailed  down  the  ocean — 
She  is  thinking  of  a  sunset,  and  a  sky  of  burning  brands. 

She  is  lonely !  She  is  tortured !  And  the  convent  breaks  her  heart ! 

Rarest  dreams  are  gone  and  vanished ;  dearest  dreams  are  fluttered 
by! 

Love  is  burned  to  dust  and  ashes  in  the  yearning  hours  that  sigh, 
In  the  vows  she  pledged  her  lover  absence  could  not  wrest  apart. 
As  she  tells  her  holy  rosary  her  fancies  all  go  drifting; 

She  is  thinking  of  a  tempest,  and  a  wreck  upon  the  sea ! 
Sad  she  gazes  down  the  chasms,  where  the  mystic  lights  go  shifting; 

And  she  thinks,  How  very  lonelier  than  death  one's  life  may  be! 

He  is  singing  up  the  valley — you  can  hear  his  softened  chime: 
Sobbing  murmurs — fitful  wails — a  lonely  symphony  of  song!  — 
Now  he  kneels  without  the  convent,  praying  God,  If  love  be  wrong  T 

Creeps  into  the  scented  garden:  it  is  prayers,  and  eveningtime. 

Swift  he  hastens  to  the  portals — from  the  sacristy  emerges, 

Guised  in  veiling  monkish  garments — lays  aside  his  loved  guitar — 

Steals  his  way  into  the  cloisters,  where  the  holy  chanting  surges, 
And  a  rosary  is  told  by  one  that  kneels  against  her  bar. 

It  is  sunset  in  the  convent  by  the  Colorado's  tide. 

Hooded  faces  at  high  windows  cross  their  breasts  before  the  sun. 

But  into  the  cloisters  stealing  comes  a  monk  that  seeks  a  nun : 
She  is  praying  in  the  silence !  He  is  standing  by  her  side ! 
From  her  rosary  she  rises — ah !  he  flings  away  his  habit ! 

Calls  to  her — she  clutches  to  him !  Sunset  paints  them  with  his  gloss. 
Up  the  summit  screams  a  buzzard ;  down  the  canyon  shrills  a  rabbit — 

But  two  cloistered  lovers  kiss  within  the  shadow  of  the  Cross. 


(  68  ) 


OUTCAST 

Mine  is  no  song  of  love  and  birth, 

But  of  one  who  sins  for  our  sake — 

The  woman  we  hate,  regardless  of  worth, 
And  say  is  unworthy  to  take. 

She  sins  because  her  soul  is  weak, 
And  she  isn't  afraid  to  trust, 

Though  after  she  sins  she  doesn't  speak, 
For  men  are  not  half -just. 

She  waits  a  call  in  seven  seas; 

She  trafficks  and  trades  in  the  Ports; 
And  they  who  scorn  her  jest  in  ease, 

As  she  cringes  in  the  courts. 

But  that  is  the  price  the  woman  pays, 
For  a  crust,  and  a  flask  of  brew : 

There  is  misery  in  her  faded  face — 
And  vice  provides  the  clue. 

Behold  the  woman,  unloved,  unblest, 

Who  lies  with  her  ship  on  the  shoal — 

Behold  the  woman  with  aching  breast, 
The  Curse  of  Time  on  her  soul ! 


(  69  ) 


SONNET:    ON  A  CHALICE 


Ah,  could  this  cup,  wherein  my  wine  glows  dim, 
Respond  with  kisses,  as  I  touch  its  brim, 

"With  that  wild  sweetness  of  its  stinging  flood — 
What  empery  of  joyousness  would  flame  my  blood ! 
What  blest  respite  from  tortuous  desires; 
From  hope  debased,  that  wantonly  aspires! — 
Then  might  I  scale  afar  through  star-shot  deeps, 
Where  mouldering  sunshed  planet  sweeps ; 
Lolling  at  dusk  upon  some  cosmic  west, 
With  some  hale  moongod,  wan  with  dreams  unguest ; 
And,  lolling,  dream,  and  dreaming,  gasp  in  death, 
Whose  haggard  witlessness  of  faded  breath 
Wraps  even  at  last  each  realm  that  glows- 
Lie  still — and  rest — and  find  repose. 


UNREST  IN  THE  DUST 


Could  Godhead  know  my  overmastering  desire, 
My  zest  for  rulership  of  star-empire, 

Sceptred  where  moonfays  drag  their  cosmic  nets, 

Sunbaited,  trawled  from  heaven's  parapets — 
Could  Godhead  sense  my  drunken  fancy-fire, 
My  vaulting  hopes,  that  wantonly  aspire, 

Striving  to  mount  athwart  the  dust 's  unease, 

Upward  through  heavenly  infinities — 
Could  Godhead  revel  in  my  fevered  lust 
That  bids  me  scale  from  starlit  aisles  of  dust — 

Ah,  what  unrest  were  his!     What  fervid  hope! 

Swift  through  the  fretted  spheres  his  soul  would  grope, 
Till  he — as  thou,  as  I,  as  all  that  quest ! — 
Should  shatter,  fall,  and  in  the  dust  find  rest. 


(  70) 


DESOLATION 

I  loved  him,  but  he  went  away,  and  went  afar  from  me, 
And  out  he  sailed  across  the  bay,  toward  the  sunlit  sea! 
And  every  night  I  set  my  light  along  the  shadowed  hill, 
Imploring  sea-waves,  half-aleap,  "Does. lover  love  me  still? " 
Methinks  had  I  been  listless  gull 

That  flutters  on  the  wave, 
I  surely  had  gone  trailing 
For  by  sailor-lover  brave! 

I  loved  him,  but  he  sailed  away;  and  that  was  years  ago! 

I  never  dared  to  smile  to  him,  nor  let  him  even  know; 

Yet  he  was  pride  of  forty  coasts,  and  I  the  maid  whose  wiles 
Had  sent  his  good  ship  trailing  down  the  dreary  coastwise  miles* 

Oh  he  was  pride  of  forty  coasts,  and  pride  of  all  the  sea! 
We  met  at  autumn-festival — he  spoke  his  love  to  me; 

But  I  could  never  tell  him  that  his  love  had  made  be  glad — 
Could  only  lift  my  wanton-lips,  and  laugh  at  lover-lad. 
And  so  he  went  away  to  sea, 

And  sailed  afar,  afar; 
And  every  night  my  light  put  down 
To  show  him  by  the  bar ! 

But  oh!  so  many  years  have  gone  that  I  am  growing  sad! 

Methinks  perhaps  a  wreck  or  flaw  has  taken  sailor-lad! 
Ah  love,  thou  rogue,  that - jests  at  men  afar  away  at  sea, 
Canst  say  if  bonny  sailor-lover-l^d  still  waits  for  me? 

And  there  were  other  lads  whoj^ed,  though  none  were  fair  as  he! 
Yet  on  the  sands  their  corses  liej  the  wreckage  of  the  sea ! 
Nor  lurks  a  lonely  fishei?-lass  to  grieve  their  mournful  fates, 
And  only  surges  sign  for  them  down  headland  desolates ! 
Yet  wha^  if  death  shall  lay  them  low, 

Of  churling  unbegat, 
For  love  of  me,  who  loved  them  not  ? 
Shall  I  take  heed  of  that? 

(  71  ) 


The  fishers  say :     "It  breaks  our  hearts  her  love  so  cold  abides ! 

She  only  frolics  by  the  sea,  and  revels  with  the  tides! 

It  crushes  us  that  kith  and  kin  should  mock  us  for  our  truth : 
Will  she  now  know  we  love  her  well? "  (Too  well,  know  I,  forsooth !) 

"And  lo!  she  spurns  us  in  her  pride,  and  lingers  on  the  west, 
Nor  joins  us  in  our  festival,  nor  tarries  for  a  guest! 

She  leers  at  us  with  heedless  eye,  nor  from  her  dreams  will  stray, 
To  share  a  loving  hour  with  us ;  but  only  scans  the  bay ! 
And  though  she  sights  our  jovial  fleets 

Come  home  at  set  of  sun, 
She  sets  her  lamp  along  the  shore, 
Nor  nods  to  anyone! 

At  night,  the  fishers  come  to  haven,  and  forth  at  dawn  they  go, 
With  sagging  sail,  and  flashing  keel ;  and  oh !  I  love  them  so ! 
Yet  never  comes  my  loved  one's  bark,  with  silver  sails  agleam, 
Save  to  the  anchorage  of  hope,  mine  harbor  place  of  dream! 

Oh  lover-lad,  the  lonely  hours  have  fretted  into  years. 
My  heart  grows  sad  in  wait  for  you ;  I  mourn  you  in  my  tears ! 
My  heacon  burns  in  feeble  hope  long  the  lonely  sea: 
Methinks  each  bark  is  yours,  come  home,  at  last,  to  shore,  and  me. 
Nor  have  I  lingered  on  your  face, 

But  you  have  made  me  gay ! 
Methinks  how  lone  would  be  the  world, 
If  love  were  snatched  away! 


Last  night  my  light  was  on  the  1^1,  and,  over  trackless  wastes, 
Amid  the  roaring  scuds  of  sea,  methinks  I  saw  his  face! 

The  sea  was  white  beneath  thelmMa,  and  silver  was  his  bark! 

And  yet  tonight  my  dream  is  de^Jkiid  land  and  sea  is  dark! 

'*      *; 
Oh  where  has  gone  my  lover-lad,  who  sought  nis  ships  and  sails, 

Who  tracked  across  the  sunlit  bay  to  brave  the  bitter  gales? 
My  heart  is  lonely  as  the  hills!     Methinks  I  hear  a  call! 
Can  it  be  he  returning  home  to  greet,  after  all? 


(  72  ) 


Methinks  his  face  is  smiling — 
But  something  mocks  my  will ! 

It  seems  that  he  is  calling, 

And  my  heart  will  not  be  still! 

I've  kept  my  blear  light  burning  as  the  seaward  ships  moved  by 
From  the  crimson  hour  of  sunset,  till  dawning  flushed  the  sky! 

Oh  lover-lad,  my  lover-lad,  I've  waited  all  the  night! 

Did  you  not  find  my  haven  ?    Could  you  not  see  my  light  ? 

The  dawn  creeps  o'er  the  seadowns,  and  swift  my  light  goes  out! 
Across  the  bay  a  bark  moves  in!     I  hear  the  sailors  shout. 
Ashore  at  last !    But  oh !  how  still  the  sailors  seem  to  be ! 
I  ask  them  all  for  tidings  of  my  lover-lad  asea. 

And  now  no  more  my  light  goes  out, 

But  all  is  dark  instead ! 
He  did  not  know  I  loved  him, 
And  they  tell  me  he  is  dead. 


WHO? 

Who  that  loves  but  joys  in  a  soft  red  dusk, 

When  the  gods  of  the  summer  fields  lie  slain, 
And  the  thistle  goes  venturing  from  its  husk, 

And  the  autumn  sports  in  the  lane? 
Who  that  sings  but  joys  in  the  land  and  sea, 

In  the  peace  that  comforts,  the  woes  that  crush, 
And  the  linnet  that  shrills  in  the  hawthorn  tree, 

And  the  song  of  the  summer-thrush? 
Who  that  grieves  but  joys  in  a  word  of  cheer, 

When  the  spirit  of  loneliness  strives  and  stings 
And  the  loving  communion  of  hearts  sincere 

In  the  solace  a  reverie  brings? 
Who  that  toils  but  joys  in  a  voice  of  hope, 

When  the  sweat-white  lust  of  his  labor  swells, 
When  out  of  the  dark  like  a  ghoul  that  gropes 

Steals  the  chiming  of  evening  bells? 

(  73  ) 


WHAT  DICKY  THOUGHT 

If  I  were  a  bird, 

I  would  sing  all  the  day : 
Hill  and  dale  would  be  stirred 

With  the  joy  of  my  lay ; 

And  my  soul  would  revolt,  as  with  pleasure-deferred, 
If  I  were  a  bird;    oh,  if  I  were  a  bird! 

If  I  were  a  bird, 

And  I  had  me  a  nest, 
And  a  stranger  inferred 

It  was  not  of  the  best, 

I  should  never  desist  till  he  swallowed  the  word, 
If  I  were  a  bird;    oh,  if  I  were  a  bird! 

If  I  were  a  bird, 

And  I  had  me  a  mate, 
I  should  say  not  a  word, 
Either  early  or  late 

That  the  soul  of  my  mate  to  unrest  would  be  stirred, 
If  I  were  a  bird;   oh,  if  I  were  a  bird! 

If  I  were  a  bird, 

And  a  birdling  were  mine 
And  it  chanced  that  I  heard 
"What  beheld  the  design 

Of  a  slur,  to  a  foray  my  heart  would  be  spurred, 
If  I  were  a  bird;   oh,  if  I  were  a  bird! 

If  I  were  a  bird, 

"With  a  nest  and  a  dame 
And  a  birdling — my  word ! — 
I  would  carol  their  fame 

Till  the  uttermost  realms  of  Creation  had  heard, 
If  I  were  a  bird;   oh,  if  I  were  a  bird! 


(74) 


THE  MEADOW-LOVER 

Lured  by  the  sweet  of  strange  meadows,  I  wander  away  to  far  fields, 
Where  night  creeps  into  the  coppice,  and  solitude  dwells; 

Nor  harvester  reaps  in  the  dusk  what  the  amber  autumn  yields, 
And  only  the  anxious  song  of  a  lark  floats  through  the  dells. 
Yet  a  sumac-leaf  turns,  and  purple  haze  foretells 

Days  of  the  dreamless  winter,  blear  with  bitter  snow, 

And  a  chiming  rill  sings  up  to  me  from  the  shadowed  vale  below : 
"Life  hath  but  love;  death  hath  all  else." 

Now  trailing  mist  lies  on  the  foothills;  dusk  and  night  rift  down, 
And  the  woodland  glade  re-echoes  with  the  lilt  of  far-off  bells. 

A  gleaming  vagary  of  crimson  flamors  on  the  lowland  town, 
"Wreathing  the  scarlet  gables  around  with  coronels; 
Which  the  weary  weaver-heart  in  somber  peace  compels 

To  tender  fantasies  that  haunt  the  duskening  gloom; 

And,  falling  into  reverie,  he  sings  unto  his  loom: 

"Life  hath  but  love;  death  hath  all  else." 

In  the  joy  of  the  tender  seduction  that  beckons  my  restive  feet, 
I  am  straying  to  far-off  meadows,  where  capricious  Oriels 

Bid  gasping  song  stray  with  the  wistful  wind  in  accents  sweet, 
Whose  fondled  lyricry  all  other  song  excels. 
Sweet  with  the  sad-breathed  taste  of  scented  calomels 

I  bathe  my  muse  in  wilding  lay  that  knows  no  tear. — 

Summer  is  dying;  and  autumn  winds  sing  in  a  mirth  austere: 
"Life  hath  but  love;  death  hath  all  else." 

Faint  glows  the  earth,  and  dim,  wreathed  in  an  exquisite  sorcery 
Shades  of  the  gloam  draw  over  the  hills,  and  evensong  wells. 

The  scarlet  lips  of  the  sunset  are'  kist  by  the  passionate  sea ; 
Surges  sing  through  the  downs,  and  lend  the  short  strange  spells. — 
Awakened,  as  if  from  a  dream  the  poppy  fancy  swells, 

I  lift  my  song  to  the  stars,  and  greet  them  merrily,  gay  ; 

Cosmos  answering  back  across  its  infinites,  to  say: 

"Life  hath  but  love;  death  hath  all  else." 


(76) 


SOUTHEAST  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE 

Southeast  along  the  ridges, 

Where  the  knight-fox  slinks  below, 
And  the  sand-birds  are  troubled  midges 

That  dart  from  the  desert  roe, 
Lies  the  the  barest  of  blighted  valleys, 

In  a  daze  of  green  and  gold ; 
Where  an  imp  from  a  wizard's  galleys 

Cleft  a  porphyry  of  old. 
Around  lie  the  desert  ranges, 

Where  silence  forever  rules, 
Ariot  with  whims  and  changes, 

Trysting  with  fates  and  fools — 
Blasted  and  blear  and  battered 

By  the  winds'  eternal  ire, 
Like  a  hideous  dream  the  hills  lie  scattered, 

Southeast  of  Heart's  Desire. 

Not  even  a  desert  rabbit ; 

Deserted  by  beast  and  bird; 
Silent  forever  by  habit; 

Startled  if  sound  be  heard. 
Lonesome,  renounced,  heartbroken, 

Seared  by  the  withering  blight, 
Accursed  by  a  mad  God's  token, 

And  shriven  of  all  delight; 
Brooding,  barrenly  gleaming 

In  the  bitter  heats  that  sting — 
A  world  deprived  of  dreaming, 

Forbidden  to  strive  or  sing, 
Tortured  with  splendid  urgings, 

Bound  on  a  simmering  pyre, 
From  shriveling  sands  to  last  peak's  vergings — 

Southeast  of  Heart's  Desire. 

(  76  ) 


The  glades  are  parched  and  bloated, 

By  the  salt  and  sickening  air; 
And  the  pools  where  a  lily  gloated 

Are  desolate-dry  and  bare. 
The  sneaking  winds  are  voiceless 

And  lurk  in  the  sullen  run. 
The  dust-whirls,  pooling  noiseless 

Circle  up  to  the  sun. 
Skeletons  once  that  wandered 

Lie  bleached  by  many  a  pack 
At  the  goal  of  a  life  ill-squandered, 

A  rude  prospector's  shack. 
And  the  sunbeams  rift  and  falter 

And  wince  in  the  cruel  fire, 
For  truth  lies  sacrificed  on  an  altar 

Southeast  of  Heart's  Desire. 


ON  THE  HEIGHTS 

It  seemed  I  had  known  you  forever  when  I  met  you  alone  in  the  dusk. 
You  had  fled  to  my  Garden  of  Dreams  and  Illusions,  leaving  your 

Gods  at  play. 

We  met  and  we  wandered  afar  in  the  scent  of  the  roses  and  musk 
And  gazed  from  the  cliffs  to  the  half-lights  below  where  a  sleeping 
sea-village  lay. 

And  up  to  the  cliffs  came  a  song  of  the  shore  and  you  spoke  of  a  joy 

that  was  thine. 

Out  of  the  harbor  a  sailor  sang  as  the  night  drew  down  on  the  sea. 
Over  the  moorlands  the  white  fogs  fell  and  the  night-wind  wooed  in 

the  pine 
As  you,  like  a  sundown  wanderer,  came  out  of  the  dusk  to  me. 

And  after  I  kissed  you,  you  leaned  on  my  breast  and  spoke  your  sweet 

trifles  to  me — 
I  said  "It  is  true — we  always  have  loved,"  without  even  knowing 

just  why. — 

And  even  today  in  my  Garden  of  Dreams  I  hear  your  innocent  plea — 
' ' Oh  love  me  forever — you  always  have  loved  me — and  Love  surely 
never  can  die." 

(77  ) 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  STAGE  WHO  LEARNED  THAT  HE  WAS 

A  BAD  ACTOR 

Them 's  Stage-Days  here  in  Blue  Bird,  an '  the  year  of  'Eight-Three ; 
When  Jake  McGinnis  chucks  his  lines  an'  gets  the  drammer  bee ; 

It's  full  three  days  before  the  stage  resumes  to  Lower  Nine; 

But  Jake  has  held  theatrickuls,  an'  Blue  Bird's  feelin'  fine. 

Which  everything  begins  the  day  these  Blue  Bird  haunts  of  ours 
Is  blessed  to  see  a  passin'  show,  entitled,  " Weeds  and  Flowers!" 

Supposed  to  be  by  Shakespeare — (But  it's  by  some  yellow  jack; 

You  buy  the  same  in  Jericho,  done  up  in  paper  back.) 

The  same  concerns  an  orfling  girl,  a  villyan  an'  his  maw, 
Conspirin '  for  to  rob  the  girl ;  but  twixt  them  steps  the  law ; 

An*  muffles  up  the  villyan's  mamm,  an'  chucks  'em  both  in  jail; 

The  orfling  safely  finds  her  love;  an'  thereby  ends  a  tale. 

As  unconcerned  as  custards,  Jake  sits  against  the  wall 
Throughout  the  hull  performance  an'  chaws  his  backy-ball. 
He's  deeply  meditatin',  an'  when  the  show  is  gone  away, 
Jake — he's  achieved  the  drammer  bee,  an'  swears  he'll  write  a  play. 

For  nigh  a  day  he  meditates,  the  when  he  wakes  his  powers 

An'  writes  a  throbbin'  drammer  round  the  grocery  store  at  Bowers'. 

It's  all  complete   (except  it's  farce — though  Jake  don't  seem  to 
care) 

So  next  night  Jake's  presentin'  it,  an'  all  of  Blue  Bird's  there. 

Old  Flinsy  comes  from  Lower  Nine  to  act  the  villyan's  part. 

Dave  Whimpler  does  the  hero,  an'  Sue  Bretty  wins  his  heart; 
Jake  fits  in  for  a  lawyer  sport,  who  steals  Sue's  wod  of  dirt: 
An'  everything  is  fixed  up  bad, — Jake's  done  things  mighty  pert. 


(  78) 


They's  parts,  though,  in  a  drammer  where  it's  mighty  had  to  act 
An'  down  toward  the  end  of  things  pore  Jake's  bright  genius  lacked. 
An'  so  the  climax  has  a  skunk  who  busts  in  on  affairs 
An'  by  predestination  things  might  take  some  sudden  airs. 

When  it  comes  time  for  this  same  phase,  Jake  has  all  cards  prepared. 
An '  Little  Britt  slings  in  a  cat ;  which  everyone  is  scared 

Because  it 's  painted  mighty  true  a  skunkish  white  and  black ; 

An'  has  a  mighty  pale  streak  down  the  middle  of  its  back. 

It's  shorely  some  commotion;  but  Tomms  from  Brittle  Pine 
Gets  up  an'  calls  the  house  to  kinks  an'  swears  all's  by  design; 
Which  sometime  lately  Jake  was  seen  to  paint  Magruder's  cat — 
An'  well!    They's  minds  in  Blue  Bird  that's  conclusive  after  that. 

Somebody  yanks  the  curtain  down  an'  ruffles  up  the  stage; 
Defrauded-like — as  some  one  says — an'  everything's  a  rage. 

An'  Jake  gets  hammered  for  his  pains,   (which  no  one  seems  to 
mind, 

As  how  this  Jake's  the  only  man  the  Stage  Days  leaves  behind.) 

An'  then  Magruder  sees  the  joke,  an'  swears  it's  just  a  show; 

An'  Jake's  pronounced  a  monarch  such  as  footlights  don't  much 

know; 

But  the  bunch  is  heaps  of  grumbles,  though  some  humor's  in  be- 
tween ; 
An'  the  episode's  concluded  where  Jake  can't  write  a  scene. 

Which  goes  to  show  that  when  a  man  has  got  the  drammer  bee 

A  cultivated  audience  is  mighty  proud  to  see; 

But  hates  to  be  defrauded  by  an  actor  who  is  punk ; — 

Though  they'll  take  your  joke  in  earnest  if  it  really  ain't  a  sl-imk. 


(  79  ) 


FAME 

Upwards  with  me  through  the  vistas  of  glory! 

Soar  from  the  dust  to  the  cloud's  lightest  breath! 
Wreathe  thee  the  epic,  the  saga,  the  story, 

Preening  a  rondel  that  jests  upon  death! 
Rise  from  the  throng  and  the  frivols  they  cherish ! 

Swift  be  thy  journey,  though  bitter  the  trail! 
Struggle  and  crush,  lest  thou  palter  and  perish ! 

Conquer  thou  must,  that  the  world  know  thy  tale ! 

Up,  with  a  song  to  the  stars  in  thy  gladness ! 

Lift  on  the  wings  of  a  fluttering  hope ! 
Clear  be  thy  vision,  berefted  of  madness, 

Keening  thy  footstep,  lest,  stumbling,  thou  grope ! 
Banish  the  glamour  that  lures  thee  to  revel ! 

Laugh  lest  the  jesting  of  death  blind  thy  soul ! 
Mount  in  thy  main  from  the  turmoil,  life's  level! — 

Blind  to  the  obstacle,  press  thy  goal ! 

Firm  be  thy  love  to  thy  soul 's  loving  master ! 

Cherish  and  heed ;  I  shall  guide  thee  thy  way ! 
Lifting  thy  spirit  to  realms  that  are  vaster, 

Easing  the  toil  of  thy  arduous  day. 
Toil  be  thy  romance !  and  peril,  they  pleasure ! 

I,  thy  reward,  and  thy  goal  that  allures ! 
Derelict  thou,  till  I  gild  thee  with  treasure ! 

Moulding  thy  fortune  that  ever  endures ! 

i 
Then  when  the  struggle  is  over  and  ended, 

I  by  my  fingers  have  lovingly  writ ! 
Keen  to  thy  arrow  thy  vision  has  bended, 

Piercing  the  stars  from  the  sweat  of  the  pit ! 
Look !  for  thy  toil  I  have  blessed  thee,  and  lifted, 

Out  of  false  airs  thou  art  fitfully  whirled; — 
Gleaned  from  thy  clay,  worthy  harvests  are  rifted: 

Thou  art  proclaimed  to  the  end  of  the  world ! 

(  80  ) 


LOVE  IN  THE  HEATHER 

"We  wandered,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
Ere  nightfall  touched  the  heather ; 
We  loitered  on  the  cliff's  edge, 
As  lovers  wait  the  moon ; 
We  waded  through  the  windswept  sedge 

That  rustled  on  the  dune 
We  wandered  in  the  magic  glow 
Of  the  crimson  sunset  weather. 

We  drifted  where  the  daisies  grew 
On  hillsides,  white  with  clover: 
I  plucked  the  sacred-scented  flowers, 
And  flung  them  in  your  hair — 
A  garland  from  sweet  bowers 

Soft  days  had  mothered  there, 
While  lonesome  winds  from  ocean  blew, 
Sweeping  the  gay  clouds  over. 

And  many  words  of  love  we  spoke, 

And  many  dreams  we  cherished — 
Dear  broken  dreams  of  long-ago, 

Dead  dreams  that  mocked  our  hearts ; 
And  all  the  while  the  west  aglow 
With  evening's  magic  arts, 
Till  sunset's  golden  barrier  broke, 

And  day's  white  guardsmen  perished. 

Then,  as  the  weary  day  was  done, 
And  dusk  drew  on  the  heather, 
We  tracked  along  the  narrow  path 

That  fronts  the  ragged  steep, 
Where  petty  herdsmen  showered  their  wrath 

On  bands  of  stubbon  sheep, 
And  wandered  home  by  the  cattle-run 
Over  crimson  downs  together. 

(  81  ) 


MAUREEN 


When  the  dusk  is  on  the  shore,  and  the  screaming  swallows  soar, 

Comes  a  voice  from  out  the  breakers,  and  it  seems  to  mock  the  sea ; 
" Mourn  for  her!"  it  seems  to  say  "Mourn  for  her,"  and  dies  away. 

Methinks  a  wail  is  in  the  wind  and  calling  out  to  me, 
Like  a  starling  in  the  night  peers  the  yellow  beacon  light ; 

Down  the  shore  the  inlet  murmurs ;  up  the  cliff  the  shorebell  rings ; 
And  the  ships  blow  up  the  breen,  to  the  wharfage  by  the  green ; 

As  fisherman  a-homing  braves  the  tempest  while  he  sings — 
(But  the  moon  gleams  lone  on  cold  Corone, 
And  the  surges  moan,  "Maureen!") 

Dimly  chimes  the  vesper  bell  in  the  chapel  down  the  dell ; 

Faintly  lilts  a  lonely  singer  up  the  cliffs  against  the  town. 
But  forever  from  the  shores  comes  a  wailing  that  implores; — 

Methinks  I  hear  a  voice  that  lures,  and  lures  me  down  and  down, 
Down  and  down  and  ever  downward  beyond  the  glowing  town, 

As  the  gloaming  draws  its  curtain  on  the  tempest  and  the  sea  ; 
And  it  seems  in  dreams  I  go  to  the  fisherdock  below 

And  find  a  little  ship  that  waits  along  the  wharf  for  me. 
(But  the  moon  gleams  lone  on  cold  Corone, 
And  the  surges  moan,  "Maureen!") 

Swift  in  sail  I  waltz  away,  down  the  ever-singing  bay: 

It  is  tempest  on  the  waters  and  the  billows  wrest  and  rave. 
But  I  sail  across  the  bar,  down  toward  the  west  afar; 

And,  heeling  on  the  stinging  blast,  nor  sheet  nor  mast  I  save. 
Full  in  sail,  and  ever  on,  forth  I  sail  to  greet  the  dawn — 

Still  the  tempest  on  the  waters,  and  the  land  afar  from  view ! 
Sailing  free,  I  brave  the  west,  keen  and  careless  on  my  quest; 

And  everywhere  around  me  dash  the  turbid  wastes  of  blue. 
(But  the  moon  gleams  lone  on  cold  Corone, 
And  the  surges  moan,  "Maureen!") 

(  82  ) 


High  above  me  yawns  the  sky,  sculling,  toppling,  racing  by; 

Giddylike  the  raincloud  spatters,  and  my  decks  are  drenching  wet. 
Like  a  lusty  steed  I  race,  down  the  never  ending  wastes. . . 

A  bleeding  heart  of  sun  spurts  up  the  dawning 's  parapet. 
Like  a  shambles  reeks  the  sea ;  wrottled  waters  wrest  them  free 

For  a  moment  dies  the  tempest — and  methinks  I  see  a  face. 
1  'I  am  lost,"  she  cries  aloud;  then  the  tempest  drops  its  shroud — 

"O,  save  me  while  thou  mayest,"  she  is  calling  down  the  wastes. 

(But  the  moon  gleams  lone  on  cold  Corone, 

And  the  surges  moan,  "Maureen!") 

"Come  to  me,"  she  seems  to  say,  but  the  tempest  rages  grey; 

(Could  I  face  the  blatant  turmoil?  Ah,  my  ship  would  pay  the  cost.) 
"Come,  to  me;  'tis  I,  Maureen!    Dost  remember  thou  the  breen 

Where  once  we  roamed  as  lovers  when  the  summer-tide  was  tost? 
When  the  starlings  laughed  above — canst  thou  'call  thou  saidst  thy 

love?"... 
(I  could  hear  her,  sighing,  crying.)     "Turn  thy  ship,  and  come  to 

me." 

Yet  I  slackened  not  my  sail,  only  raced  before  the  gale 
And  on,  and  ever  onward,  danced  my  galley  down  the  sea. 
(But  the  moon  gleams  lone  on  cold  Corone, 
And  the  surges  moan,  "Maureen!") 

Hour  on  hour,  the  tempest  roared,  hour  on  hour  her  voice  implored. 

More  and  more  each  hour  it  clutched  me,  like  a  talon,  at  my  heart ! 

"Turn  thy  prow,"  it  seemed  to  say;  "Thou  didst  vow  to  make  me 

gay! 

Yet  thou  hast  dashed  thy  promise  like  the  coward  that  thou  art!" 
Ever  louder  grew  the  plea,  ever  mocking,  shaming  me; 

"Ah,"  said  I,  "will  yet  she  call  me !  Shall  I  turn  to  find  her  still?" 
"Aye !"  the  tempest  seemed  to  sob   "Find  her  now,  whom  thou  didst 

rob! 

A  pledge  or  promise  broken  is  an  omen  boding  ill." 
(But  the  moon  gleams  lone  on  cold  Corone, 
And  the  surges  moan,  "Maureen!") 


(  83  ) 


So  I  turned  against  the  gale,  and  I  stemmed  it  with  my  sail ; 

Yet  no  more  her  voice  would  call  me — and  I  cried  for  her  in  vain. 
1  'Come  to  me,"  I  cried  to  her;  but  the  waters  seemed  to  purr 

A  rune  of  death  and  broken  hearts  across  the  lonely  main. 
' '  Call  no  more, ' '  the  billows  sighed ;  '  *  She  is  lost  beneath  the  tide ! 

Like  a  cask  of  precious  treasure,  she  is  sunk  beneath  the  wave ; 
Call  for  her  no  more!"  they  wept;  down  once  more  the  tempest 

swept — 

And  though  I  stood  against  the  blast,  she  rose  not  from  her  grave. 
(But  the  moon  gleams  lone  on  cold  Corone, 
And  the  surges  moan,  "Maureen!") 

Lonely  hours  I  stayed  about,  filled  the  tempest  with  my  shout, 
"Ah,  I  know  thee  now,"  I  shouted —  "Come,  and  let  us  seek  the 

shore ! 
Ah,  I  loved  thee  well  and  true :  'twas  not  I  was  false  to  you ! 

Maureen,  Maureen,  0  come  to  me;  I'll  bear  thee  grief  no  more! 
Thou  wert  mine  upon  the  green  when  the  ships  blew  up  the  breen; 

I  am  thine  to  do  thy  bidding — call  to  me,  and  I  shall  come ! ' ' — 
But  alas,  I  called  in  vain,  for  the  tempest  and  the  main 

Had  swept  her  down  forever;  so  I  faced  the  lights  of  home. 
(But  the  moon  gleams  lone  on  cold  Corone, 
And  the  surges  moan,  "Maureen!") 

And  to  night  she  seems  to  say,  '  *  Come  to  me — love  guides  the  way ! 

On  the  sea  of  life  I  shatter,  and  the  tempests  do  me  harm! 
From  the  haven  far  I  fail — on  the  waters  breaks  a  gale. ' ' 

Methinks  I  hear  a  wailing  high  above  the  buoy's  alarm. 
Lonelily,  the  haven  gleams,  and  the  yellow  beacon  beams, — 

Down  the  shore  the  seawinds  mutter,  up  the  cliffs  the  seagulls 

sweep — 

"Come  to  me!"  the  waters  preen;  and  the  ships  blow  up  the  breen— 
But  the  fingers  of  a  tempest  clutch  the  bosom  of  the  deep. 
(And  the  moon  gleams  lone  on  Cold  Corone, 
And  the  surges  moan,  "Maureen!") 


(  84  ) 


A  SONG  OF  SUMMER 

Summer  has  come  to  my  music,  and  me. 
Mirth  reigns  supreme  in  the  heart  of  the  bee, 

Bidding,  "Make  merry; 

Seek  the  far,  airy, 
Gnome-haunted  downs,  or  the  tremulous  lea." 

Perfumed  winds  blow  from  the  South 's  open  door. 
High  in  the  asure  the  swift  swallows  soar; 

Summer  is  saying, 

"Go  ye  far,  maying, 
Seeking  the  downs,  'twixt  the  sunlands  and  shore." 

Over  the  moorland,  and  over  the  lea, 

A  wind  of  remembrance  sweeps  in  from  the  sea; 

And  the  heart  of  a  fairy 

In  argosies  airy 
Bears  back  the  ghosts  of  dead  summers  to  me. 

For  the  gay  lute  of  romance,  awake  with  a  vow, 

In  chorus  diurnal  is  beckoning  now 
With  songs  of  a  lur eland 
That  lies  down  the  moorland, 

Where  vanity  dreams  'neath  the  blossomy  bough. 

Far  on  the  downs,  where  the  shores  kiss  the  sea, 
And  the  song  echoes  back  up  the  wastes  of  the  lea, 

Bland  summer  caresses 

Away  our  distresses, 
And  bids  us  be  blithe  as  the  heart  of  the  bee. 


(85) 


THE  PICNIC  AT  BLUE  BIRD 


When  Miss  Sophy  has  a  birthday,  it's  a  gay  old  time  in  camp. 

Little  Britt  don't  see  the  difference  if  it  is  a  splash  of  damp; 

An'  indeed  they's  hard  rain  fallin',  like  a  placer  miner's  hose — 
But  we  all  declares  a  picnic,  an'  the  whole  of  Blue  Bird  goes. 

If  you're  ever  up  to  Blue  Bird,  take  a  saunter  to  the  spring, 
Where  it  bounces  down  the  landscape  with  a  sudden  sort  of  swing, 
An'  goes  washing  by  the  ridges  like  a  boulder  down  a  draw, 
Which  you'll  see  the  finest  spot  a  Blue  Bird  picnic  ever  saw. 

Sophy  wears  her  white  kimony,  an'  it's  plastered  up  with  flowers — 
Blue  Bird  Jim  has  brought  it  to  her  from  the  grocerystore  at  Bowers ' ; 

An'  it  sure  befits  the  lady  who  is  prancin'  down  the  trail. 

Little  Britt  an'  Dirk  is  proud  ones — Little  Britt,  he  hums  a  scale. 

Well !  the  Butchers  come  from  Tonguestead,  an '  the  Popes  from  Lower 

Nine. 

Whimplers '  folks  runs  in  from  Jericho,  an '  Tomms  from  Brittle  Pine ; 
Which  it 's  quite  a  family  gatherin ' — Blue  Bird  don 't  much  see  them 

things ! 
An'  the  singin'  kid  from  Fowlers  hops  up  a  tree  an'  sings. 

Which  it's  in  the  midst  of  luncheon,  an'  his  notes  acts  kind  of  cross. 
First  he  warbles  like  a  magpie ;  next  he  whinnies  like  a  hoss ! 

An'  it  sounds  a  heap  partic'lar  as  he  wants  to  raise  a  row; 

So  we  ups  an'  grabs  him  gently  an'  removes  him  from  the  bough| 

Turkey  Fratters  from  the  placers  tries  to  give  a  speech  on  Law; 
Which  he  mentions  bonds  of  usury — (Such  things  he  never  saw!) 

An'  he  jolts  the  fine  distinctions  with  a  rabid  sort  of  whish! 

So  we  settles  his  maneuvers  with  a  half-full  gravy  dish. 

(  86  ) 


Well,  this  Fratters — he's  some  ambled,  an'  he's  rattled  as  a  pig. 

So  he  scoots  up  on  the  table  (Which  the  same  ain't  strong  or  big) ; 
An'  politely  down  it  tumbles,  so  we  fixes  up  a  gag, 
An'  crams  his  face  with  mustard  ,an'  holds  it  with  a  rag. 

Then  we  totes  him  to  the  river,  where  the  spring  just  bubbles  in, 
Which  he  souses  him  for  churchtime,  an'  it  shorely  is  a  sin! 
Then  we  rips  the  bag  clear  open  an'  removes  the  gag  an'  cloth 
So  he  shorely  spits  the  mustard  an'  his  guzzle  in  a  froth. 

Mike  McGinn,  who  runs  the  levels,  thinks  a  speech  ain't  out  of  place; 

Fingle  Wilson  makes  the  motion;  but  he  gets  hit  in  the  face 

With  a  soft-inclin'  doughnut;  an'  they's  heaps  of  batter  flies — 
Wilson  looks  as  sly  as  groundhogs,  an'  scarce  believes  his  eyes. 

Well — McGinn,  he  doesn't  say  much,  but  his  words  is  shore  direct, 
An'  is  mighty  fundamental  in  the  ways  of  intellect; 

Which  he  says,  '  *  Our  love  for  Blue  Bird  is  the  same  it  is  for  Crow, 
As  we  never  gets  enough  of,  an '  we  wants  the  world  to  know ! ' ' 

Little  Britt,  he  pops  the  question:    "Is  a  picnic  all  complete, 
If  they  ain  't  no  gentle  dancing '  ? "    So  we  ups  an '  ons  our  feet ; 
An'  we  starts  the  01'  Virginny;  which  the  music  is  by  Dutch, 
Who  intrudes  a  jews-harp  overture  that  pleases  plenty  much. 

After  while  it  starts  to  pour  down,  an'  they's  none  of  us  is  turned 
To  await  a  gentle  soakin7,  so  we  gets  ourselves  adjourned; 
An'  we  dashes  up  the  canyon  like  a  herd  of  skittered  sheep, 
Gettin'  wet  as  any  chicken  as  was  rained  on  in  his  sleep. 

Finally  we  gets  to  Blue  Bird ;  an '  it  rains  in  torrents  now. 
Little  Britt,  an'  Dirk,  an'  Sophy  all  is  howlin'  at  the  row! 

But  Miss  Sophy  is  declarin'  she  is  past  the  year  of  eight; 

An'  we  wants  to  see  her  nine  so  bad  we  really  hates  to  wait! 


(87) 


HARVEST 


Among  these  fields  the  sheaves  of  harvest  lie 

Where  toilers  reaped  them  in  the  autumn-mist ; 
A  purple  haze  veils  up  from  land  and  sky, 

Claret  and  blue  and  azure-amethyst. 
Leaves  fallen  lie  in  rifts  and  ranks, 

Tinted  of  crimson,  where  the  summer  bled ; 
My  heart  uplifts :  I  utter  reverent  thanks : 

These  are  but  leaves  lie  dead ! 


Grim  fancies  haunt  me  as  I  linger  here 

Of  other  lands,  where  webs  of  war  are  spun, 
Of  bosoms  blenched  in  sorrowment  austere : 

The  bleeding  cost  of  battle  brusquely  done ! 
Men  fallen  lie  in  rifts  and  ranks, 

Tured  by  the  share  beneath  the  plowman's  tread ;- 
My  heart  uplifts :   I  utter  reverent  thanks : 

These  are  not  men  lie  dead ! 


Leaves  are  not  men,  yet  both  of  earth  are  born  ; 

To  each  comes  birth  and  fulness  and  decay: 
A  breath  of  God  on  dust  at  early  morn, 

At  dusk,  life's  sunset  in  its  breathless  clay! 
So  these  twain  harvests  lie  in  ranks: 

These  sheaves — those  men  by  battle  bled; 
My  heart  uplifts:   I  utter  reverent  thanks: 

Leaves  here — not  men — lie  dead! 


(88) 


INVOCATION 


City,  city,  thou  art  holy;  I,  thy  minstrel — this,  my  lay! 
(Mould  in  me  thy  master-singer:  thou  be  potter,  I — the  clay!) 

City,  city,  thou  art  holy,  witching  through  the  night  to  me, 
Blaring  forth  thy  trysting  voices,  striving,  singing  in  my  soul! 

Sayest  thou:   ''Unveil  thy  spirit!  Loose  the  lyre  that  lives  in  thee!" 
City,  city,  thou  art  holy ;  canst  thou  make  my  young  heart  whole  ? 

Up  to  me  thy  beacons  gleaming !    Up  to  me  thy  dim-hushed  lay : 
Songs  of  industry  and  labor,  fondly  murmured  to  my  heart! 

Shall  thy  gorgeous  burst  of  beauty  ever  fade  and  die  away? 
Shall  thy  daring  dreams  of  glory  ever  vanish  from  thy  mart? 

City,  all  thy  dreams  are  faded;  all  thy  flowers  droop  with  dust! 

(Man  reviled  thee;  God  forget  thee;  yet  I  love  thee  all,  entire!) 
I  would  lude  my  song  to  bless  thee  in  thy  gracious  joy  and  lust : 

Fold  me,  mould  me,  to  thy  glory !    Wake  me  to  thy  desire ! 

Down  the  gray  abyss  of  ages,  ere  the  hopes  of  man  unveil, 
And  his  epic  fades  forgotten  in  a  more  eternal  Thing, 

City,  city,  I,  thy  minstrel,  would  enchant  thee  with  my  tale; 
I  would  free  thee,  bond  and  burden:  thou  but  bid  me — I  should 
sing! 

Be  thou  merciful,  0  City!    I  am  weak;  yet  thou,  0  pray, 
Be  my  worthy  master-moulder :  thou  be  potter,  I — the  clay ! 


(  89  ) 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

I  wandered  away  from  the  village  to  the  schoolhouse  that  lurks  in 

the  glen, 
And  I  thought  how  the  dear  years  had  vanished,  and  in  childhood — 

how  gay  we  were,  then ! 
And  I  came  to  the  hill  where  the  master  had  schooled  us  to  honor's 

first  vow ; — 

But  the  kindly  old  master  is  sleeping  in  the  churchyard  just  over 
the  brow. 

I  strolled  to  the  brook  in  the  pasture  where  it  sang  when  the  summers 

were  blue, 

And  we  plucked  us  the  big  scented  daisies  with  the  rapture  our  in- 
fancy knew. 
And  I  sat  'neath  the  gnarly  old  hawthorn,  with  the  names  that 

we  carved  on  its  bough, 

And  fell  thinking  of  dear  ones,  there,  sleeping  in  the  churchyard, 
so  peacefully  now ! 

I  roamed  on  the  heights  where  the  reapers  were  gleaning  their  ripen- 
ing grain 
And  I  thought  how  we  squandered  our  childhood  in  a  longing  that 

vexed  us  in  vain ; 
— But  it  seemed  joy  was  gone  from  the  hilltop,  yet  whither,  I  knew 

not,  nor  how ; 

And  the  past  with  its  bliss  all  lay  buried  in  the  churchyard  just 
over  the  brow. 

I  came  to  the  cot  of  the  sexton,  and  the  chapel  that  hides  up  the  lane 
And  I  thought  how  the  bells  of  the  sunset  rang  out  as  the  daylight 

would  wane ; 
But  the  roof  of  the  cottage  is  fallen,  and  the  winter  rain  seeps  in 

the  mow, 

As  it  seeps  in  the  grave  of  the  sexton,  on  the  hill,  in  the  churchyard, 
there,  now. 

(  90  ) 


I  sang  where  of  old  we  had  revelled,  but  something  was  gone  from 

the  song, 

And  the  pleasure  seemed  slain  in  my  spirit,  and  remorsefulness  ling- 
ered too  long ; 
But  I  thought  I  could  hear  the  old  laughter;  and  it  comes  to  me 

tenderly  now, 

And  I  dance  on  the  hill  with  the  comrades  that  are  sleeping  just 
over  the  brow. 

There  only  is  grief  in  the  village,  and  a  dream  of  old  places  I  trod 

Comes,  drawing  me  nearer  and  nearer  full-span  to  the  bosom  of  God ; 

But  my  prayers  never  waver  nor  falter,  for  I  know  when  the  dust  I 

endow, 

There'll  be  rest  there  my  spirit  has  wished  for,  and  a  solace  my 
rest  shall  allow. 

I  think  how  the  past  has  all  faded,  of  a  yesterday  perished  and  fled 
And  I  dream  of  the  chums  of  my  childhood, — how  so  many  are  van- 
ished and  dead ; — 

But,  ah !  as  my  memories  waken,  what  treasure  of  joy  they  endow, 
For  I  know  we  shall  be  reunited  in  the  churchyard  just  over  the 
brow. 


Supreme  in  hearts  of  holy  men  one  lonely  creed  may  chance. 

Another  heart  adores  no  less,  yet  does  no  creed  advance. 
To  utter  all  the  living  fire  of  rapture  in  the  breast 
Is  God 's  sublimest  sophistry,  and  more  than  all  the  rest. 


(  91) 


WIMMEN  AIN'T  CARDS 

I  sat  on  a  stool  with  a  mug  of  brew,  and  never  was  saying  a  word ; 
And  there  at  the  table  the  stranger  talked  and  all  that  he  said  I  heard. 
He  stacked  his  cards, 
And  winked  at  his  pards 
And  hummed  an  ode  from  the  olden  bards ; 
But  I  never  stirred  from  my  mug  of  brew — 
Still  I  wisht  I  could  know  what  the  stranger  knew. 

On  his  nose  was  a  wart ;  on  his  hip  was  a  gun ; 

But  he  didn't  have  either  for  frolic,  for  fun; 

His  face  was  hard,  and  his  voice  was  low, 

But  just  why  they  were  I  never  did  know ! 

When  the  stakes  were  made,  the  gambler  smirked, 

But  the  stranger  grinned,  and  his  eyebrows  worked ; 

When  the  cards  were  dealt,  the  stranger  howled, 

And  the  gambler  frowned,  but  the  dealer  scowled. 

Their  eyes  were  daggers  that  stabbed  and  shone, 

While  the  stranger  talked  in  an  undertone 
And  stacked  his  cards, 
And  winked  at  his  pards 
And  hummed  an  ode  from  the  olden  bards ; 
But  I  never  stirred  from  my  mug  of  brew — 
Still  I  wisht  I  could  know  what  the  stranger  knew.  , 

When  the  play  began  the  stranger  shrugged, 

And  the  gambler  grunted,  and  the  dealer  looked  jugged. 

The  stranger  snarled  through  a  black  grimace, 

And  a  flush  of  scarlet  came  over  his  face. 

And  then  I  saw  what  you  won't  believe: 

The  gambler  reached  in  the  dealer's  sleeve 

For  a  queen  of  spades,  which  the  very  same 

The  stranger  now  held  in  the  selfsame  game ! 

(92) 


But  the  stranger  saw,  and  his  fingers  spun, 
And  quick  as  a  sunflash  he  gripped  for  his  gun, 
And  the  livid  lead  like  a  sluice-head  run, 
And  the  gambler  lost,  and  the  stranger  won, 
And  the  shots  rang  out  like  a  cannon's  roar, 
And  the  gambler  staggered  across  the  floor, 
And  stumbled  dead  through  the  open  door ; 
But  the  stranger  smiled  at  the  things  he'd  done, 
And  stacked  his  cards, 
And  winked  at  his  pards 
And  hummed  an  ode  from  the  olden  bards ; 
But  I  never  stirred  from  my  mug  of  brew — 
Still  I  wisht  I  could  know  what  the  stranger  knew. 

For  he  says,  "It  ain't  that  I  give  a  curl — 

But  the  queen  of  spades  is  a  bad  old  girl! 

I  tried  my  hand — as  the  gambler  did — 

But  our  dates  gets  mixed  on  the  same  little  kid, 

And  it's  matter  of  fact  that  somebody  dies," 

And  I  saw  they  was  brains  in  the  stranger's  eyes. 

He  cocked  his  heels  on  the  table,  there, 

And  chattered  away,  with  sense  to  spare; 

And,  says  he :    ' '  It 's  bad ;  but  if  wimmen  was  cards, 

They  wouldn't  be  hard  of  solution,  eh,  pards? 

But  wimmen  ain't  cards,  and  a  man  can't  say, 

If  she's  lookin'  at  two  when  her  love's  which  way,3 

And  he  scratches  his  head,  and  raises  his  brows, 

And  the  same  was  thin  as  a  garret  louse, 

Yet  he  orders  up  drinks  for  all  the  house. 

And  stacked  his  cards, 

And  winked  at  his  pards 

And  hummed  an  ode  from  the  olden  bards ; 
But  I  never  stirred  from  my  mug  of  brew — 
Still  I  wisht  I  could  know  what  the  stranger  knew. 


(  93  ) 


A  YOUNG  MAN'S  WILL 


When  passions  grief  makes  tender 

To  bless  a  dying  hour 
Compel  one  to  surrender 

The  summer  and  the  flower, 
And  young  hearts  gayer  cherish 

The  treasures  each  must  leave 
When  childish  prides  must  perish 

And  youth  has  learned  to  grieve — 
Then,  in  those  precious  revels, 

Which  make  last  moments  sweet, 
Ere  beauty's  temple  levels, 

To  lie  at  ruin's  feet 
Gay  youth  confutes  the  sadness 

That  dared  old  hours  to  blight 
And  pays  its  vows  of  gladness 

To  lend  anew  delight. 
Like  one  upon  the  highway, 

Relentless  in  his  youth, 
Who  seeks  the  silent  byway 

Where  death  reveals  its  truth 
And  leaves  to  those  who  tarry 

The  pleasures  of  the  mart, 
Surrender  I  the  fairy, 

Sweet  fortunes  of  my  heart. 

I  thought  my  life  eternal — 

I  found  it  but  a  day ! 
Though  revelry  supernal 

Has  lingered  on  my  way! 
Yet  all  the  joys  of  living 

That  blest  my  merry  hours, 
Once  more  to  youth  I'm  giving — 

My  dreams,  the  fields,  the  flowers. 

(  94  ) 


The  loves  that  deigned  to  meet  me 

Amid  the  autumn-dusk 
In  fond  procession  greet  me, 

Bereft  of  all  save  husk ; 
On  fancy's  pyre  I  burn  them 

In  memory's  incense  flame 
Unto  youth's  Gods,  who  yearn  them — 

Gay  Gods,  from  whence  they  came ! 
And  so,  to  memory's  wassail 

I  lift  a  toast  to  bless 
Life's  all-sufficing  vassal, 

Love's  dream  of  tenderness; 
Yet  death  shall  revel  on  it- 
Love  's  genial  dream  must  die ! 
And  youth  shall  dare  to  pawn  it 

For  dust  in  which  to  lie. 

And  so  these  fancies  wither ; 

And  ancient  dreams  expire; 
Fond  memory  bears  them  hither — 

Endearing  to  my  lyre ; 
And  through  their  nameless  legions 

In  dreams  afar  I  tread 
To  haunt  the  shameless  regions 

Wherein  repose  the  dead. 
I  glimpse  forgotten  faces, 

Old  eyes,  with  joy  aglow, 
As  once,  in  cherished  places, 

I  saw  them  long  ago. 
Like  elfish  forms  they  revel, 

Like  lurid  ghouls  they  leap — 
And  so  my  dreams  dishevel, 

And  so — I  fall  asleep: 
A  sleep  that  knows  no  ending, 

Nor  dream,  perchance,  nor  care, 
Where  every  hour  goes  lending 


The  tenderness  of  prayer. 
And  so,  alas!  I  leave  you — 

Yet  grant  me  no  regret, 
Nor  let  my  passing  grieve  you: 

Oblige  me  to  forget. 

So  through  my  heart's  belongings, 

As  I  their  symbols  seek, 
Regrets  and  ancient  wrongings 

Their  noisome  woes  bespeak — 
But  deaf  to  their  appealings, 

"Without  reserve  or  lack, 
With  somber,  sober  feelings, 

I  now  return  them  back. 
Thus,  if,  within  your  musings, 

Bare  grief  should  mock  your  heart, 
Or  doubt,  too  self-accusing, 

Should  rend  your  faith  apart, 
Let  not  your  joy  grow  fretful — 

Remember  sacredly 
The  reveries  regretful 

Perchance  that  troubled  me. 
For  I  in  sweet  compassion 

Return  to  youth  once  more 
In  due  regretful  fashion, 

The  joys  young  men  adore. 
May  this,  my  aimless  madness, 

Your  meditations  ease! 
May  you  in  life  find  gladness, 

As  I  in  death  find  peace ! 


(  96  ) 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  AUTUMN  WOODS 

When  summer  dies  and  fades,  and  winds  of  autumn  blow 

Strange  yearnings  strive,  and  unrest  burns  in  me, 
And  so  to  wander  in  the  solitudes  I  go, 
Resigned  to  reverie. 

I  take  the  olden  paths  that  I  was  wont  to  tread, 

And  croon  old  airs  I  used  to  cherish  sweet, 
Trampling  the  crimsoned  leaves,  where  frost-slain  summer  bled, 
Beneath  my  truant  feet. 

Across  the  wastes  that  glow,  my  morbid  fancies  brawl, 

Among  the  ruins  of  the  vernal  June, 
Where  lie  plain-written  destinies  for  man  and  all, 
About  my  journey  strewn. 

A  mottled,  frost-stained  leaf,  blotched  like  a  leper's  hand, 

Wings  from  a  twig,  and  flutters  in  my  way, 
And  with  its  sudden  vision  bids  me  understand 
Where  passeth  yesterday. 

For  yesterday  is  gone,  with  all  its  merry  train ; 

Tomorrow  soon  the  selfsame  path  shall  tread, 
(That  oft  our  hearts  would  stay,  but  all,  alas!  in  vain! — ) 
And  with  old  dreams  lie  dead. 

And  with  them,  lifeless,  there,  the  poet  with  his  lines, 
The  mason  with  the  stone  he  shapes  and  cleaves, 
Shall  be  death 's  usury ;  for  ever  life  resigns, 
Even  as  these  autumn  leaves. 

Earth  is  their  sepulture ;  the  winds  shall  be  their  dirge ; 

Snow  and  spring-garlands  shall  enwreathe  them,  there; 
Song  shall  not  stir  their  hearts,  nor  joyous  romance  urge, 
Nor  shall  they  cringe  with  care. 


Nor  on  their  withered  lips  shall  carols  gay  be  born ; 

Nor  blithing  birds  disturb  their  slumber's  bond; — 
A  chapel  chimes  shall  sing  its  dreary  dole  at  morn, 
Yet  these  shall  not  respond. 

And  so  life  fades  and  goes,  and  I,  as  these,  shall  pass, 

Lamented-well,  and  mourned-for  in  my  clay; 

Turfed  in  unhallowed  dust,  the  scented  summer  grass 

Above  my  head  shall  sway. 

A  passing  breeze  a  lonely  paean  may  complain, 

For  my  dumb  ears,  that  shall  not  heed  its  woe ; 
Loved  ones  shall  linger  nigh,  and  call  for  me  in  vain, 
To  sing,  as  long  ago. 

And  every  bleeding  sunset  that  slew  its  west  for  me 
Shall  dine  its  lovegod  in  dead  day's  druid  gore, 
Lighting  its  beacons  'round  the  ghastly  summer  sea, 
Down  ragged  wastes  of  shore; 

Of  nights,  a  jewel-star  will  glimmer  through  its  cloud — 

A  lovemoon  wash  the  hilltop's  cloven  dross, 
And  leer  askance  my  grave,  where  winter  veils  my  shroud — 
Yet  shall  these  rue  my  loss  ? 

And  every  dawn,  dewsoaked,  and  bleak,  and  gleaming  pale, 

Shall  light  these  woods,  and  spangle  with  its  kiss, 
The  hyacinth,  the  jonquil  of  fairy-flowered  vale. . . 
Nor  shall  I  know  their  bliss. 

Immortal  day  shall  burn,  immortal  night  shall  fall — 

Yet  not  for  my  scant  ruin-scattered  brain ! 
For  me  a  spring-bird,  far  across  the  dales  shall  call — 
Yet  call — alas!— in  vain! 


(  98  ) 


On  wasting  mounds  of  dust  the  winter  rains  will  fall ; 

From  niggard  turf  spring  violets  will  creep; 
The  summer  suns  will  warm  my  senseless,  songless  pall, 
And  autumn  winds  will  weep. 

Yet  that  were  recompense  for  what  the  dead  has  earned : 

A  toiler 's  wage  for  him  that  labored  well : 

A  goal  for  pulsing  clay,  wherein  ambition  burned: 

A  prayer  at  evening  bell ! 

And  I,  who  tarry  here,  to  sing  my  little  while, 

What  shall  I  be?    Shall  mine  be  rest  in  sod? 
Or  shall  I  soar  from  dust  to  greet  the  joyous  smile 
Of  one  that  was  my  God? 

For  what  I  sing,  methinks,  is  not  this  thing  men  see, 

And  I  who  sing  am  more  than  trodden  clay : 
Meseems  who  seraph-sings  this  idle  elegy 
Mounts  to  a  Higher  "Way! 

Although  no  Destined  Star,  perchance,  reward  my  path, 

But  only  wincing  dust  men  stalk  upon, 

Still  through  my  winnowed  clay  shall  Nature  soothe  her  wrath, 
With  fonder  symbols  drawn. 

Methinks  the  brotherhood  that  life  has  cleft  and  kept 

Shall  make  men  kinsmen  in  the  craven  clay, 
And  consecrate  the  loam,  where  rueless  life  has  crept, 
And  bless  dead  hates  away: 

That  in  their  path  shall  come  a  newer  clan  and  kin, 

And  these  shall  pass,  throughout  predestined  years, 
And  others  come  to  stray,  where  these  so  blithe  have  been, 
And  pass,  as  they,  in  tears: 


(99) 


That  from  the  dust  each  birth  sublimer  life  shall  brew — 

That  better  hearts,  abeat  more  full  and  free, 
(Burning  with  love-remembered  each  life's  ashes  knew, 
Those  other  years,)  shall  be. 

Crude  is  my  elegy,  uncouth  each  word  and  thought, 

And  like  old  paths,  and  those  that  tread,  shall  pass ; 
Though  little  rue  have  I,  if  in  its  truths  be  taught 
How  death  holds  life 's  hourglass ! 

Ah,  if  my  clay  in  that  of  worthier  hearts  and  hands 

Shall  come  to  mingle,  and  with  love  be  blest, 
Fostering  a  master-heart,  that  truly  understands — 
Then  mine  shall  rest  content ! 


TO  THE  WILLAMETTE 


Beloved  Eiver,  thou,  as  I,  art  bound  upon  an  endless  way ; 
Hush,  Eiver,  sing  thy  song  no  more — Leap  on,  0  River — I  must  stay. 
For  sunset  comes,  and  close  of  day,  and  darkness  to  the  hills,  and  me ; 
And  I  but  tarry  by  thy  shore;  yet  thou  shalt  ever  find  the  sea! 


Beleaguered  wanderers,  far  from  home,  upon  thy  cliffs  have  sung  of 

thee. 

Bards  along  thy  flashing  foam  turn  merry  dream  to  poesy. 
Thy  brink,  0  River,  guards  from  me  the  golden  fervor  of  a  rhyme, 
Thy  rills  have  held  in  secrecy  beyond  all  men  throughout  all  time. 


(  100  ) 


A  NIGHT  IN  PARADISE 

Christmas  Night  in  the  uplands,  and  the  hills  are  white  with  snow. 
Eagle  Pass  dreams  in  silence  in  the  moonlight's  silver  glow 
And  Old  Man  Slavin  is  telling  a  tale  of  the  long-ago. 

Were  you  ever  lost  in  a  loneliness,  where  nothing  is  near  but  peaks, 
And  never  a  sign  in  the  hills  but  snow,  and  a  gale  that  screams  and 

shrieks, 
When  the  wind  let  loose  in  a  basky  blow,  till  the  shaggies  froze  and 

whined, 
And  the  snows  veiled  down  in  the  biting  air  and  the  coldness  made 

you  blind, 
And  your  herds  went  wild  and  ran  away  and  froze,  when  the  light 

was  dim, 
And  you  lost  your  sheep  and  your  pardner  ?    That  was  how  I  lost  Jim. 

We  were  running  herd  in  Paradise,  where  the  range  had  a  duster  of 

grass. 
We  had  quit  for  the  night  and  had  a  fire,  and  the  sheep  ran  loose  in 

the  pass. 
The  hut  leaked  wind,  but  the  sun  was  down,  and  the  snows  ran  piling 

high— 
But  there  wasn't  a  thing  at  all  we  could  do,  but  stand  for  it,  Jim 

and  I. 

Not  a  task  that  everyone  likes  to  turn,  but  strictly  against  the  grain ! 
We  shivered  and  shook,  and  rattled  our  teeth,  and  the  wind  cried  over 

the  plain. 

I  heard  Jim  say :  Lay  down  and  sleep :  no  use  to  stay  up  all  night ! ' ' 
I  told  him,  "  No  ! "  But  the  first  I  knew  the  moon  got  to  shining  bright. 
I  was  out  in  a  land  that  you  never  saw  and  nobody  else  has  seen, 
Where  everything  was  ice  and  snow,  with  never  a  thing  left  green. 
I  saw  a  cabin  across  the  hills,  and  a  sheepfold  under  a  ledge, 
Where  a  little  brook  ran  bubbling  down  and  chimed  its  way  through 
the  sedge. 

(  101  ) 


Nothing  at  all  to  do  but  look,  and  nothing  at  all  to  say. 

The  snowdrifts  stretched  like  fields  of  wheat,  and  the  pines  were 

shocks  of  hay. 

Out  in  the  snow  was  a  little  lost  lamb,  bleating,  alone  in  the  cold, 
But  the  rest  of  the  flock  were  under  the  hill,  snuggling  safe  in  the 

fold. 

Up  at  the  cabin  there  opened  a  door,  and  I  saw  a  face  peer  through 
And  put  a  hand  up  over  its  eyes,  the  way  the  hillmen  do. 

He  sighted  the  lamb  out  in  the  night,  and  closed  the  door  behind, 
And  struggled  toward  me  along  a  ridge  through  the  gloom  a  moon 

made  blind. 
Soon  he  was  down  in  a  little  draw,  where  the  teeth  of  the  wind  cut 

sharp, 

And  the  wind  came  singing  across  the  barrens,  chansoning  like  a  harp. 
It  sounded  like  music  from  angel-land,  and  I  listened,  and  heard  it 

blow — 
But  out  in  the  drifts  was  the  call  of  the  lamb,  lost  in  the  fleering  snow. 

Then  a  storm  swept  up,  like  a  charmer's  veil,  and  hurtled  along  the 

flaw. 

Over  the  hills  the  cabin-light  grew  dim,  and  along  the  draw 
I  watched  a  gust  in  the  dancing  moon,  and  the  snows  spun  piling-deep, 
And  I  saw  the  hillman  stagger  around  and  grope  for  the  whining 

sheep. 

But  the  snow  came  thick,  and  blinded  me,  so  I  tried  to  think  my  way, 
But  my  head  dried  up ;  and  I  tried  to  shout,  but  never  a  word  could 

I  say. 

The  gusts  sighed  by,  and  the  tempests  cleared,  but  the  plains  were 

level  and  bare — 

Then  something  suddenly  waked  me,  like  a  hand  in  the  raw  night  air. 
Over  my  feet  was  a  whirl  of  snow,  but  I  lifted  myself  to  my  feet. 
The  fire  was  as  cold  as  a  cinder;  and  the  pass  was  as  smooth  as  a 

sheet. 

Over  my  head  was  a  blanket,  and  the  floor  of  the  hut  was  white, 
With  nothing  around  me  but  whiteness,  and  the  wind  gone  mad  in 

the  night! 


(  102  ) 


I  called  to  Jim  in  the  silence,  but  I  did  not  get  a  reply. 

In  the  east  was  dawning  morning,  and  the  hills  sparked  up  to  the  sky. 

Nothing  for  me,  but  to  find  my  pard!   And  I  did — in  a  heap  in  the 

pass. 

There  in  his  arms  was  a  frozen  lamb ;  but  his  eyes  were  shiny  as  glass. 
Just  a  good-hearted  man  of  the  hills !  That  was  the  way  with  him ! 
But  I  always  have  kept  that  blanket :  you  see,  it  belonged  to  Jim. 

Christmas  Night  in  the  uplands,  and  the  valleys  glare  with  snow, 
And  Old  Man  Slavin  is  telling  by  the  yulelog's  merry  glow 
This  tale  of  a  simple  herdsman  I  tell  that  you  may  know. 


DESERT  LOVE 


I  loved  too  well,  and  in  my  loving  lost ! 
For  she  had  never  loved  me ;  and  my  own 
Was  but  a  false  desire  that  left  me, 
Bleeding,  and  alone,  upon  life 's  desert ! 

Last  night,  she  called  to  me. 

I  lay  alone  beneath  the  stars, 

The  purple  dusk  about; 

Deep  desolation,  everywhere; 

And  somewhere,  off,  afar, 

Her  pleading  voice  entreated  mine 

To  answer:    "I  forgive — forget !" 

She  called  but  once,  and  then  was  gone 
For  ever !    And  yet  down  in  my  heart  I  know 
The  many  times  that  she  has  called ; 
Nor,  hoping  aught  but  jest, 
Has  tarried  for  reply  in  vain. 

0  man !    To  crush  a  heart,  and  have  that  heart 
To  beg  of  thee,  thy  own  forgiveness ! 

(103  ) 


LITTLE  BRITT 

I  suppose  we  're  shy  on  manners,  as  we  eats  most  with  our  knife ; 

An'  we  ain't  as  wise  as  some  folks,  an'  don't  know  much  of  life; 
But,  as  Blue  Bird  Jim  was  sayin',  we  kin  gamble  quite  a  bit 
We  knows  angels  when  we  sees  'em,  an'  one  is  Little  Britt. 

Now  his  paw  is  Old  Man  Britt,  which  he  ain't  ever  had  a  wife ; 
But  he's  been  a  missionary,  preachin'  Gospel  all  his  life; — 

An'  his  maw  is  Mother  Peets,  what  ran  the  PARLER  HOWSE 
CAFAY; 

Which  she  never  has  a  husband,  but  has  the  winnin'  way. 

We  ain't  speakin'  of  relations,  for  this  Old  Man  Britt 's  a  MAN; 
An'  Mother  Peets  is  gold  clear  through,  an'  heapin'  in  the  pan; 

An'  it's  Old  Man  Britt 's  fust  backslide;  so  the  kid  grows  up  in 
camp, 

An'  they's  not  a  cussed  miner  don't  love  the  darlin'  scamp. 

When  Old  Man  Britt  gets  in  a  drift,  an'  obsequies  was  said, 
This  Little  Britt  ain't  got  no  paw  we  knows  of  but  is  dead; 

Maw  Peets  has  leery  tremers,  an'  her  brain  don't  much  respond: 
When  Little  Britt  is  goin'  four,  she  seeks  the  hills  beyond. 

Sir,  it 's  sure  a  pure  plumb  picnic  when  this  kid  fust  has  a  fight ; 
Which  it's  out  in  front  the  PARLER  HOWSE,  an'  shorely  some  de- 
light! 

An'  it's  for  a  gal  named  Sophy,  where  they're  playin'  in  the  road; 

ATI'  Little  Britt,  he  licks  young  Dirk  as  perky  as  a  toad. 

But  of  course  this  feud  ain  't  lastin ' ;  so  it  ain  't  much  time  to  wait 
Till  Little  Britt,  an '  Sophy,  an '  young  Dirk  is  pardners  straight ; 
An'  they  ain't  much  better  cronies  as  a  miner  cares  to  see 
Than  Little  Britt  an'  Sophy,  an'  young  Dirk  appears  to  be. 

Now,  it's  sort  of  up-between-us  Little  Britt  ain't  for  to  know 
That  his  standards  don't  go  pay  dirt  as  most  people  likes  to  show; 
Which  we  swars  it  on  our  whiskey,  an'  it's  level  in  the  cup;— 
Though  we  sorts  of  sets  to  wonderin'  who  he'll  be  when  he  grows 

up. 

(  104  ) 


Once,  up  in  the  EGLE  DANCE  HAWL,  when  Little  Britt  is  five, 
Eight  or  nine  of  us  is  gambling  peddlin'  pitch  to  beat  a  hive, 
When  Old  Pitcher,  who  is  losin',  makes  the  innocent  remark 
He  won't  keep  our  little  secret  any  longer  in  the  dark. 

He  is  edgin'  off  some  cautious,  an'  we  asks  him  what  he  means; 

An'  he  points  out  in  the  alley:   Little  Britt  is  there  in  jeans! 

"Which  he  ain't  much  more  'n  said  it  than  we  has  him  by  the  ears, 
An'  out  into  the  thurrerfare,  an'  stripped  to  runnin'  gears. 

Someone  prowls  a  feather  pillow  from  inside  the  PARLER  HOWSE. 

So  we  heats  some  tar  for  Pitcher,  an'  gives  him  quite  a  souse; 
An'  we  rolls  him  in  the  feathers,  which  is  quite  profuse  in  strain, 
Kind  of  sick  it  ain  't  a  hangin ' ;  for  his  actions  is  a  pain. 

Well,  of  course,  it's  some  commotion;  an'  this  Little  Britt,  he  comes, 
An '  Sophy,  an '  young  Dirk,  an '  sees  Old  Pitcher  do  his  sums ; — 
Pitcher  looks  a  bit  unpleasant,  an'  he  rattles  like  the  roop: 
Our  Little  Britt,  he  grins  an'  says,  " Ain't  Pitcher  cute  for  soup?" 

For  weeks  Old  Pitcher's  might  good,  an'  Little  Britt  just  grows; 
But  somehow  we  gets  inklin's  this  orfling  sort 'of  knows; 

Which  it  makes  days  nights  in  Blue  Bird,  and  we  ain't  much  heart 
to  talk  ; 

Though  we  kind  of  thinks  it's  Pitcher,  an'  watch  him  like  a  hawk. 

Now  Miss  Sophy,  she  loves  Little  Britt,  an'  so  it  keeps  us  blue, 
For  we  wonders  if  she'll  love  him  if  she  ever  learns  what's  true. 

An'  Little  Britt  loves  Sophy  lots,  an'  young  Dirk  does  the  same; 

But  Little  Britt  ain't  born  just  right — an'  no  one  much  to  blame! 

Well,  one  day,  back  last  September ;  (an'  it's  dry  as  bones  in  camp  !)— 
Little  Britt,  he  has  a  birthday,  so  we  takes  ourselves  a  lamp, 

An'  we  goes  'way  down  in  Blue  Bird,  where  they  ain't  the  light  of 
day; 

Which  we  only  works  the  same  because  it's  mighty  pink  with  pay. 

(  105  ) 


This  bein'  Little  Britt 's  fust  trip,  Miss  Sophy  goes  along. 

Young  Dirk  is  there  for  company,  though  by  all  rules  it's  wrong; 
An'  we're  walkin'  close  to  Pitcher,  which  he's  stubborn  as  a  fool, 
An'  he's  tipsy  on  the  diggin's;  which  it's  square  against  the  rule! 

All  of  sudden  Pitcher's  crazy,  an'  he  knocks  our  lamp  away; 

An'  he  starts  for  Little  Britt — But,  sir,  we  feels  the  whole  mine  sway; 
"Which  the  next  we  knows  it's  daylight, — an'  I'm  layin'  on  a  ledge, 
An'  it's  smoke  an'  fire  around  me — so  I  looks  down  off  the  edge. 

Little  Britt  has  got  Miss  Sophy,  an'  he's  pulled  her  out  the  mine. 
He's  lugged  young  Dirk,  too,  out  the  place ;  an'  sure  it's  mighty  fine : 

He's  all  burnt  up  an'  bleedin',  but  he  ain't  no  mind  to  quit. 

He  lays  Dirk  down,  an'  back  he  goes  down  in  the  mine,  does  Britt. 

I  gets  up,  an'  kind  of  staggers,  an'  edges  down  the  pit; 

An'  pretty  soon  I  finds  them  there,  an'  hears  this  Little  Britt, 

An'  Pitcher,  there,  conversin' — all  I  sees  is  Pitcher's  head; 

An'  Pitcher  says,  " Forgive  me,  Britt— I  lied!"  an'  falls  off  dead. 

Well,  the  mine  is  like  a  furnace,  but  we  gets  'em  out  the  place. 

Old  Pitcher 's  dead  an '  quiet ;  Britt  is  clinkered  in  the  face ! 

Dirk  an'  Sophy  looks  like  cinders:  otherways,  they's  mostly  right, 
An'  we  manages  to  save  'em;  but  Our  Britt,  he  dies,  that  night. 

Just  before  he  dies  he  asks  me  if  the  wust  of  things  was  true ; 
An'  we  lies  ,an'  says  they  wasn't;  for  what  else  was  we  to  do? 

But  says  Britt,  "I  guess  it's  true,  boys;  Sophy's  yours  for  keeps, 
now,  Dirk!"— 

So  he  toddles  off  to  heaven,  an'  we  shambles  back  to  work. 

They's  no  preachers  up  in  Blue  Bird — Sophy  says  they  ain't  enough! 

An7  we  ain't  none  on  religion,  so  they're  buried  in  the  rough. 

But  they's  one  thing  true  as  daylight — an  we'll  lay  a  heap  on  it — 
When  we  shakes  hands  with  the  angels,  we'll  shake  with  Little 
Britt. 


(  106  ) 


THAT  WOMAN  YOU  MEET 

Sometimes  when  you  meet  a  strange  woman,  nor  matters  much  how, 

or  the  place, 
There 's  something  that  seizes  your  innermost  fancies,  and  conquers 

the  fort  of  your  heart! 
All  citadels  fall  at  the  hand  that  she  lends,  when  she  taunts  with  her 

maidenly  ways, 

And  always  you  like  to  be  scholarly  lover,  though  distance  has 
borne  you  apart. 

She  need  not  be  nun,  nor  even  a  sinner:  perhaps  she  has  lost  at  her 

cards ! 
There  may  be  a  curse  on  her  heart,  as  you  take  it,  a  curse  that  her 

mothers  have  known. 
Or,  maybe,  the  devil  has  pilfered  her  heritage,  lending  her  soul  to 

his  pards, 

And  set  her  free,  soulless,  and  heartless,  uncared-for  ,to  struggle 
and  suffer  alone. 

Still  she's  just  as  the  Gods,  in  their  wisdom  have  made  her — it  may  be 

they've  made  her  for  you! 
For,  somehow,  she  only  can  cheer  you,  by  treating  you  royal  and 

good! 
She  could  not  be  false,  for  it  isn't  her  nature,  but  ever  she's  gentle 

and  true ! 

And  always  you  know  she  is  making  you  love  her — she  always  has 
understood. 

She  blesses  your  weakness,  forgets  your  intrusion,  forgives  what  is 

black  in  your  soul! 
She  would  go  to  her  ruin,  if  given  the  word!    She  scarcely  could 

venture  too  much ! 
She  pays  every  reckoning  ever  you  bid  her,  and  pledges  her  faith  on 

your  goal, 

And  goes  to  her  doom,  unrewarded,  unloved,  for  the  grief  that  you 
bade  her  to  touch ! 

(  107  ) 


So  say  we  too  much  of  the  woman  we  meet,  because  she  is  errant  and 

surly ; 
Her  heart  may  be  whimsical,  laugh  at  tradition,  be  vanitie,  shrew 

or  a  sprite! 
But  forget  not  the  devil,  who  games  for  madonnas,  and  conquers — he 

conquered  her  early — 

Though  little  he  gained  but  the  doom  of  a  woman,  whose  virtue  he 
scattered  to  flight ! 

For  there's  ruin  abroad  if  the  devil  has  won,  and  the  curse  of  his 

toil  is  completed, 
Though  lover  forgives  all  the  loved  one's  offenses,  if  loved  one  be 

noble  at  heart; 
Forget  then  a  past,  though  damnably  desolate — why  need  its  pains 

be  repeated, 

When  wisely  it's  well  to  be  scholarly  lover,  though  distance  has 
borne  you  apart? 


PEBBLE  OR  WAVE 

Life  is  only  what  you  make  it:    If  you  want  to  be  a  pebble, 
All  you  need  to  do  is  just  to  seek  the  throng ; 

But  you  will  not  win  the  music  of  a  herald's  piping  treble — 
Men  will  like  you,  but  will  not  remember  long. 

You  will  pass  away,  as  summer  from  the  cotton; 

Men  will  lay  a  little  flower  on  your  grave; 
But  the  Gods  ordain  you  soon  will  be  forgotten — 

Do  you  want  to  be  a  pebble,  or  a  wave? 

Life  is  only  as  you  take  it :   For  the  path  is  long  and  lonely, 
And  the  pebbles  are  the  margin  of  life 's  shore ! 

And  the  waves  come  breaking  on  them  and  they  beat  them  sorely,  only, 
Only  ceasing  when  the  pebbles  strive  no  more. 

But  the  pebbles  merely  drift  along,  and  falter; 

And  they  never  rest  a  moment  in  the  lave ! 
And  the  waves  forever  sweep  them  from  life's  altar — 

Do  you  want  to  be  a  pebble,  or  a  wave? 
(  108  ) 


RUINS  OF  A  CONVENT 


Yonder  lie  the  ruins,  where  a  stately  palace 

Reared  its  lofty  columns  to  the  blazing,  bitter  sun, 
Crumbled  into  fragments :  even  as  they  that  raised  a  chalice 
And  drained  a  glowing  health  within  its  corridors  to  one 
A  myriad  of  hearts  adored,  (Whose  heart  ignored  the  loves  they  said, 
And  pledged  to  hold  a  chastened  self,  and  scorn  the  life  they  led.) 

Gardens  lie  about  it,  and  the  desert  mountains 

Wall  the  cloistered  places  from  the  wistful  winds  in  flight; 
Other  walls  enclose  it,  that  in  falling  filled  the  fountins, 

Where  hearts  were  prone  to  sophistry  and  dream  in  summer  night. 
No  more  the  fountain  songs  resound ;  no  more  the  lyric  waters  play : 
Time,  like  a  tyrant,  sweeps  the  pride  of  fondest  hands  away. 

Dreaming  in  the  moonlight,  where  the  ghostly  gloaming 

Paints  a  deep  oblivion  on  a  day  long  past  and  dead ; 
Solitary  figures  tread  the  dreamways,  wont  for  roaming ; 

Solitary  voices  say  the  loves  their  youths  have  said; 
And  every  figure — every  face — it  seems  is  touched  and  made  to  glow ! 
Yet  death  has  said  their  requiem :   Life  is  but  dream,  we  know. 

Over  crumbled  ruins,  where  the  silence  wreathes  them, 

Figures,  forms,  and  faces  the  corridors  held  dear, 
Wander  in  the  fretful  airs,  and  dimming  shadow  sheathes  them : 

Sc  igs  arise  and  fill  the  gloom;  yet  bring  to  me  a  tear 
Of  dim  regret  for  one  so  rare,  whose  precious  charms  I  never  knew, 
And  yet  whose  memories  are  so  fair,  I  know  her  heart  was  true. 


(  109  ) 


THE  HEART  OP  A  DOUGLASS 

(Why  Charlefoux  Drank  Whiskey) 

Come  away  to  Old  Dominion,  where  the  birds  forever  sing. 

Find  the  valley  of  the  Stuart,  when  the  wilderness  was  king. 
They  were  sitting  at  a  table  in  the  silence  of  the  Post: 
It  began  across  the  toddies :    Charlefoux  had  said  a  toast. 

John  McLoughlin  turned  to  Douglass  with  a  compromising  air; 

Raised  his  goblet:   "Dinna  ken  but  what  ye  luve  the  lassie,  there! 
Just  aboot  it — tell  me,  laddie ;  is  it  so,  or  say  ye  nay  ? ' ' — 
1  'What  think  ye?"  retorted  Douglass;  but  his  face  was  turned 
away. 

"Did  I  bring  ye  here  from  Lanark  for  this  lass  to  win  your  heart? 

Listen,  laddie;  is  it  over?  must  our  journeys  lead  apart? 
Can 't  ye  give  a  wurrd  o '  comfort  to  the  wan  that 's  proud  o '  you  ? ' ' — • 
Douglass  sipped  his  glass  in  silence :    He  was  watching  Charlefoux. 

Charlefoux  was  drinking  whiskey — not  a  common  thing  for  him ! 
He  had  raised  his  glass  to  Douglass,  and  his  lips  were  at  its  brim : 

' '  Sure  t  'ing,  Doctoire  Joan,  'e  lof  'er ;  'ow  could  'elp  lof  such  a  lass  ? 

See!  I  dreenk  to  mek  heem  happy!"  Charlefoux  had  drained  his 
glass. 

Douglass  nodded,  laughing  lightly;  Charlefoux  cheered  loud  with 

glee. 
John  McLoughlin  sipped  his  toddy;  then  he  added,  "Waal,  ye  see, 

It's  the  Honor  o'  the  Company — 0'  course  ye  understand! 

There's  na  host  o'  women  here,  lad,  though  it  is  a  British  land." 

Charlefoux  had  turned  from  laughter  to  the  Doctor's  hardened  face. 

It  was  dawn;  none  else  were  stirring,  save  these  three,  within  the 

place. 

Loons  were  screaming  on  the  river,  but  of  these  they  reckoned  not : 
At  a  glance  of  John  McLouglin,  minor  parts  were  all  forgot. 

(  HO  ) 


"Ready,  Charlefoux?" — The  Doctor  glanced  toward  the  Iroquois. 
"Oui,  oui,  Doctoire  Joan,  oui,  oui,  sir!"  Charlefoux  was  flushed  with 
joy. 

"Then  prepare  to  make  the  journey !"  Charlefoux  was  out  the  door. 

"Oui,  oui,  sir!"  he  chattered,  gaily,  singnig  off  toward  the  shore. 

' '  Oh,  it 's  morning  on  the  river ! ' '  They  could  hear  the  fellow  sing. 
"Oh,  it's  morning  on  the  river!"  And  the  echoes  seemed  to  cling. 

"Oh,  it's  morning  on  the  river;  It's  a  fond  adieu,  ma  friends; 

An '  away  we  go  forever  down  the  trail  that  never  ends ! ' ' 

"He  is  always  such  a  jester!"  Douglass  spoke  of  Charlefoux. 

"Always  happy  as  a  baby — never  saw  him  mad,  did  you?" — 
But  McLoughlin  shook  his  toddy:   "So  it's  Nelia,  then,  ye  love?" 
Douglass  pushed  aside  his  goblet,  and  was  reaching  for  his  glove. 

"I  remember,"  smiled  the  Doctor,  "How  she  watched  you  when  ye 

came. 
Conolly's  a  Celt — he  tells  us;  Nelia  burns  with  crimson  flame; — 

But  she's  every  inch  a  princess,  an'  her  father  is  a  man! 

Lad,  she's  fit  for  any  Douglass:  win  the  lady,  if  ye  can!" 

Conjured  visions  danced  in  Douglass  of  his  days  along  the  rills. 
Nelia!  she,  the  factor's  daughter!  here  among  these  lonely  hills! 

Tender  years  had  kept  her  merry !    Father  love  had  made  her  true ! 

And  her  silver  songs  outrivalled  even  those  of  Charlefoux. 

"Lad,  ye  say  ye  have  ambitions!  aye  thy 're  food  for  manly  dream! 

Waal,  we're  goin'  down  the  Stuart:  Look,  it's  mornin'  on  the  stream. 
But  we've  room  for  one  companion,  if  ye  have  a  wurrd  to  say!" — 
Douglass  flushed  with  glowing  color,  brushed  his  glove,  and  looked 
away. 

Douglass  smiled,  and  faced  the  Doctor,  but  he  had  not  yet  replied. 
Charlefoux  sang  in  the  distance,  down  along  the  riverside. 

And  a  smile  of  understanding  lighted  up  the  Doctor's  face. 

Yet  their  lips  broke  not  the  silence :  It  was  very  still,  that  place. 

(  111  ) 


"We  are  going  on  a  journey!"  Douglass  clutched  the  Doctor's  hand. 

Chasms  that  once  had  yawned  between  them  with  a  golden  bridge 

were  spanned. 

"Aye !  'Tis  far — a  lonely  journey — would  ye  have  a  comrade,  lad?" 
Douglass  harder  gripped,  and  nodded,  for  his  heart  was  very  glad. 

At  their  side  a  door  pushed  open :  Conolly  stood  there,  alone. 

Nelia's  father!    Greetings  passed;  yet  there  was  sorrow  in  their  tone. 
Douglass  heard  a  step  behind  him :    On  his  eyes,  a  tender  hand : 
It  was  Nelia :  she  was  laughing !  Glimpses — all  could  understand. 

"Will  ye  love  her,  lad,  and  keep  her?"  Conolly  had  felt  the  sting. 
But  the  honor  of  a  Douglass  is  the  honor  of  a  king: 

"Aye!  I  will,  sir!"  clamored  Douglass,  "for  it  means  the  world  to 
you."— 

From  the  woods  along  the  river  came  the  song  of  Charlefoux. 

Conolly  could  say  no  further,  but  a  glance  that  seemed  to  pass 
Brought  to  those  within  the  Post  why  Charlefoux  had  drained  his 

glass. 

' '  She  is  willing, ' '  said  the  factor,  ' '  And  I  know  you  '11  be  her  friend : 
She  is  yours  through  Love's  dominion — may  your  journey  never 
end!" 

WISDOM  IS  LOVE 

Thread  ye  the  deserts,  and  sail  the  far  seas, 

Clamber  the  peaks,  where  the  purple  mists  cling — 
List  to  the  brooklet  and  hark  to  the  bees ; 
Love  is  their  king ! 

Sweat  in  the  city,  in  industry's  pale — 

Follow  the  lights  where  their  revels  allure — 
Love  is  the  pleasure  that  never  shall  fail- 
Love  shall  endure ! 

Scan  with  the  least,  and  scoff  with  the  best ; 

Seek  from  the  sands  to  the  planets  above — 
Life,  without  love,  is  a  lie,  and  a  jest! 
Wisdom  is  love ! 
(  112  ) 


THE  LOVE  OF  ADVENTURE 


Give  us  the  wave  and  the  running  tide, 

The  dangerous  shoal,  where  the  wind  is  free, 

And  the  windswept  dune, 

Where  the  summer  moon 
Lends  solace  to  the  restless  sea. 

We  vowted  to  be  weary  of  earth's  wild  way, 
Craving  the  sea,  where  the  mad  waves  toss, 

Spurning  the  shore 

For  the  trade-wind's  lore, 
Beneath  the  boding  Southern  Cross. 

So  seaward  we  sailed  from  the  sunlit  bay 
Where  a  storm-swept  haven  braves  the  west, 

And  a  gleaming  sail, 

And  a  sunset  gale, 
And  a  gull  at  wing,  set  our  souls  at  rest. 

For  the  golden  glamour  of  romance  rides 
On  the  billowy  crest  of  every  wave, 

Where  a  hero  sleeps 

In  the  chartless  deeps, 
With  only  the  foam  to  mark  his  grave. 

And  the  sea  is  a  harbor  of  refuge, 

If  the  heart  be  prest,  and  suffer  sore ; 

And  the  restless  wastes 

But  lend  us  grace — 
0  give  us  a  sail,  and  we  seek  no  more ! 


(  113  ) 


AGAINST  THE  WIND 

The  wind  is  hot,  and  burns  the  face ; 

The  desert  glitters  bright ; 
A  suffering  spirit  haunts  the  wastes — 

I  wish  for  rest,  and  night ! 
The  cattle  drift  and  break  their  ranks ; 

Their  flames  look  drawn,  and  bare ; 
Their  skins  sag  from  their  gaping  flanks, 

Their  heads  droop  with  despair. 

And  so  across  the  burning  lands 

We  follow  herds  that  mourn — 
Is  this  some  realm  that  God's  dear  hands 

Forsook,  and  left  forlorn? 
Far  off  a  happy  herder  sings — 

I  feel  the  voice  has  sinned ; 
Man  always  does  forbidden  things ! 

Life  rides  against  the  wind. 

EVENSONG 

Softly  and  sweetly  across  the  evening  hills 

Her  tender  voice  complains  to  me, 
Like  the  lonesome  music  of  summer  rills — 

A  tender,  plaintive  plea. 
I  hear  her  singing,  and  so  into  my  heart 

A  loving,  longing  memory  steals 
As  fond  as  the  carol  her  blithe  lips  impart 

In  lonely,  ling 'ring  peals. 

Her  voice  is  lonely :  it  seems  within  her  breast 

A  humble  touching  hunger  wells ; 
And  I  love  her  song  for  the  sweet  behest 

Each  fondled  accent  tells. 
0  lonely  singer,  afar  across  the  eve, 

Complain  no  more  thy  woe  to  me ; 
Hast  thou  lost  a  friend?    Yet  why  dost  thou  grieve! 

I  lost  a  love  at  sea. 

(  114  ) 


URBA  MORBA 


Waking  so  restless,  what  village  in  its  slumber  knew  such 
peace  ? — 

Its  silver  spires  of  smoke  from  myriad  chimneys  rise ; 
The  noises  of  the  streets  in  giddy  lulls  find  ease ; 

A  misty  moon  hangs  low  in  shimmering  skies; 
The  streets  in  silver  threads  inweaving  and  abroad  do  go ; 

No  vagrant  traveler  dims  their  sheen  of  light ; 
No  longer  do  cathedral  bells  chime  low; 

No  spirit — not  a  soul ! — abroad,  this  magic  night ! 

Whence,  traveling  forth  beneath  the  summer  moon, 

Hath  even  the  spirit  of  this  sacred  village  sped? 
Whence,  drifting  forth  some  haunting  afternoon, 

Have  fared  the  souls  that  once  these  manses  tenanted  ? 
And  they  who  labored  here  to  rest  once  more, 

Gnawed  by  some  sorrow,  with  a  frown  upon  their  face, 
Waste  in  their  grief,  as  withering  reed-raped  shore — 

The  gable-nesting  swallows  take  their  place. 

Ah !    All  was  bright  that  day !    This  fond  retreat 

Withheld  some  sorcery  within  its  lonely  lanes ; 
And  with  the  unhushed  patter  of  children's  feet 

Mingled  a  minstrelsy  of  laughter 's  glad,  sweet  strains. 
Perhaps  some  soul,  bereft  of  tender  cheer  , 

Found  solace  here,  as  I,  when  night  was  still, 
Sighing  for  some  forgotten  yesteryear — 

Yet  now,  no  human  heart !  no  human  will ! 


(  115  ) 


TRUTH 


Come !    Stand  with  me  a  while  ! 

Conquer  with  me,  or  fail ! 
Strip  ye  your  soul  of  guilt  and  guile ! 

Gird  ye  my  worthy  mail ! 
Steel  your  heart  for  the  fray ! 

Rally  with  heart  and  hand ! 
Learn  ye  to  sway !    Ye  are  more  than  clay ! 

Pledge  for  my  goal  and  stand ! 


Speed  from  the  festal  throng ! 

Face  ye  the  turbid  field! 
Trample  the  legions  and  ranks  of  wrong ! 

Come!    Grip  your  hilts!  nor  yield! 
Loud  be  your  battle-cry! 

Bold  with  my  legions  press! 
Lift  emblems  high !  Ye  must  stand  or  die ! 

I  may  not  bid  you  less ! 


Clash  with  the  stinging  steel — 

Foemen  are  nought  to  you ! 
Sing  in  the  splendor  of  lust  ye  feel, 

The  heat  that  thrills  you  through ! 
Laugh  to  the  worthy  Gods ! 

Swear  ye  could  die,  if  right! 
Ignore  the  odds  !  Ye  are  more  than  clods ! 

Come !  Stand  with  me  and  fight ! 


(  116  ) 


A  SONG  OF  LABOR 


Builders,  0  Sons  of  Men,  spilling  with  youth,  and  lust, 

Ye  who  are  kindred  to  starling,  breath  of  the  Gods  on  dust, 

Born  of  the  loam  ye  have  trampled,  moulded  at  fate's  own  will, 
Weaving  your  woof  at  the  world 's  white  roof — know  ye  must  labor 
still ! 

Toilers,  0  Sons  of  Men,  wresting  with  bond  and  chain, 
Leashed  at  the  withering  furnace,  blinded  with  blearing  pain, 
Steeled  by  the  loads  ye  have  laden,  serving  your  master's  will, 
Ye  are  but  sands  in  the  Gods'  swift  hands — know  ye  must  labor 
still! 

Singers,  0  Sons  of  Men,  blithely  your  songs  ye  sing — 
Clutching  for  epical  grandeur,  up  from  the  dusks  they  spring; 

Know  ye  the  songs  that  lie  hidden,  wiling  to  heed  your  will? 

Ye  must  be  meek  till  ye  learn  to  speak — know  ye  must  labor  still ! 

Dreamers,  0  Sons  of  Men,  flamed  with  a  fancied  youth, 

Ye  who  have  pondered  in  secret,  scanning  the  dust  for  truth; 

Loved  ye  the  things  ye  imparted?    Know  ye  the  Gods'  sweet  will? 

Ye  are  the  hopes  of  a  world  that  gropes — know  ye  must  labor  still ! 

Masters,  0  Sons  of  Men,  sorely  we  rend  the  gates; 

Laugh  though  ye  will,  we  could  crush  you,  raging  with  ancient  hates ; 

Let  a  dead  past  lie  forgotten — ours  be  a  builder's  will! 

Shapen  of  sod,  in  the  grace  of  God,  know  we  must  labor  still ! 


(117) 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  MAGNOLIAS 


Sweet,  loving  lips,  that  wait  for  me, 
Be  patient — I  shall  not  forget ! 

The  tide  is  singing  on  the  shore, 
And  all  the  night  with  dew  is  wet : 
To  shore  I  come  from  storm  and  sea, 
To  leave  no  more ! 


Soft,  silken  cheeks,  flush  not  thy  deeps, 
For  soon  my  lips  shall  fondle  thee 

And  leave  an  ivory-hued  impress ; 
But  linger  only  quietly, 
As  though  nearby  a  wakeful  goddess  sleeps 
In  sweet  distress. 


Bright  eye,  that  sparkles  to  the  moon, 
Dispel  the  love-expectant  gleam 

That  seeks  repose  within  thy  wells ; 
I  bring  love's  pearl  in  ships  of  dream, 
An  argonaut  to  thy  lagoon, 

To  wreathe  sweet  spells. 


Keep  not  strange  fires  and  loathe  the  hours, 
But  wait  my  call,  and  dream  of  me ; 
I  come  unbidden,  and  my  argosy 
Sails  to  thy  haven  and  to  thee, 
For  love's  sweet  guiles  amid  the  swaying  bowers, 
By  life 's  rough  sea ! 


(  118  ) 


ALONE  WITH  THE  DEAD 

Resound  no  more,  0  surging  foam,  but  mourn  for  her  thy  woe 

With  solemn  beat  thy  dirges  low  be  said! 
Let  gorgeous  sunsets  wreathe  their  garland  glow 
For  her,  the  beauteous,  whom  death  doth  know, 
More  beautiful  than  dead. 

Once  was  no  song  along  thy  wastes  too  sweet  for  her  to  sing, 

Nor  vagrant  wind  too  fond  in  its  caress; 
Yet  nine  days  dead  she  lies,  a  tortured  thing, 
Abeach,  where  thou  didst  dare  to  fling 
Her  dross  in  helplessness. 

And  I  with  plaintive  sorrow  broken  bend  upon  the  sand, 

Life's  cast-up  wreckage!    0,  how  lone  to  part, 
0,  Sea,  from  one  I  loved,  yet  thou  loved  more ;  whose  hand 
I  kiss;  who,  unresponsive,  does  not  understand; 
Whose  passing  breaks  my  heart! 


SUNSET 

Pale  rifts  of  floating  vapor  tint  the  western  blue 
Touched  crimson  by  the  day-departing  sun — 

The  remnant  of  a  passing  storm,  this  too 
Bespeaks  a  perfect  day  that  has  begone. 

Pale  lights  aspire  and  flare  that  weirdly  glow,  and,  dim, 
Seem  pouring  out  a  hint  of  joyous  ease. 

What  harbinger  are  they?  of  storms  to  come? 
Or  sunny  days,  to  die,  as  this,  in  peace? 

When  has  departed  this  whose  gorgeous  cheer  and  calm 
Made  men  who  saw  feel  wondering  and  odd? 

A  faint  mysterious  light  falls  on  a  balm 

And  one  more  day  has  gone  to  meet  its  God. 

(  119  ) 


JASON  LEE 

Eastward  from  wild  Pacific's  tides 

A  messenger  rode  through  the  evening  light 
Along  the  desolate  mountainsides 

In  the  hurry  and  haste  of  a  sudden  flight ! 
Crushing  the  sob  that  stirred  his  breast 

With  his  tender  love  for  all  mankind ; 
"Give  us  the  law!"  had  the  tribes  exprest — 

But  a  horseman  rode  behind. 

Keen  in  his  thoughts  were  memories 

Of  the  friends  he  had  left  at  the  western  shore — 
Back  of  him  lay  the  haunts  of  peace ; 

The  martial  plains  lay  stretched  before ! 
His  but  to  ride,  nor  heed  the  cost ! 

His  but  to  gain,  to  feeling  blind ! 
Loved  ones  would  suffer,  if  goal  were  lost — 

But  a  horseman  rode  behind. 

Swift  to  the  saddle,  and  swift  to  the  trails ; 

Up  to  the  hills,  down  vales  beyond ! 
Dust  clouds  wreathed  him  like  silken  veils 

Of  sacred  smoke  from  a  conjuror's  wand. 
Gay  were  the  hopes  did  his  dreams  amuse — 

Bore  him  to  eastward,  his  heart  resigned, 
Uncomforted  by  cheerful  news — 

Yet  a  horseman  rode  behind. 

Threading  the  plains  like  a  restive  gust  ; 

Of  skelter-wind,  on  mischief  bent, 
Hidden  betimes  in  the  swirling  dust 

That  wreathed  him  'round  with  merriment, 
Often  he  dreamed  of  the  sturdy  west, 

And  the  factor 's  house  Wjiere  he  last  had  dined — 
Yet,  "Eastward  Ho!"  was  his  endless  quest — 

And  a  horseman  rode  behind ! 

(  120  ) 


Come  by  night  to  Kansas'  stream, 

Where  the  lights  of  a  fortress  sparkle  gay ! 
Memory  flits  like  a  listless  bat, 

And  he  thinks  of  a  loved  one,  far  away. 
Deep  in  his  bosom  a  memory  yearns, 

And  he  thinks  of  a  cottage,  eglantined, 
Where  the  flame  of  another  fireside  burns, — 

But  a  horseman  rode  behind. 

Out  of  the  dusk,  sweet  thoughts  of  old, 

In  calm  procession  drifted  by, 
In  a  tender  vision  of  joy  untold, 

That  flashed  as  fretful  fires  that  vie. 
A  woman 's  figure,  gracious,  prim, 

Caressed  by  a  zephyr,  western-wined, 
Came  into  his  dreams  to  gladden  him — 

But  a  horseman  rode  behind. 

And  he  thought  a  child  perhaps  had  come 

Like  a  blessing  of  heaven  to  pay  his  woe, 
For  the  anxious  hours  he  had  suffered  dumb 

On  the  danger  trails  that  men  must  go. 
He  thought  of  a  curly-headed  boy, 

With  a  lisping,  girlish  grace  combined; 
And  his  heart  was  flushed  with  a  sudden  joy — 

But  a  horseman  rode  behind. 

Then  out  of  the  night,  a  stranger  calls, 

Weary  and  worn  from  the  rugged  trails, 
Come  with  a  message  to  fortress  walls, 

With  a  lip  that  quivers,  a  heart  that  quails. 
Into  the  east,  and  out  of  the  west, 

In  a  tender  tie  of  love  entwined, 
Fell  unsaid  sorrow  on  the  wanderer's  breast — 

For  a  horseman  rode  behind ! 


(  121  ) 


The  horseman's  face  was  painfully  still — 

He  was  broken,  and  seemed  distrest ; 
"We  buried  her  there  on  the  little  hill," 

He  said— "With  her  babe  at  her  breast!" 
Over  the  fort  crept  a  silence  cold, 

And  the  weary  wanderer 's  heart  grew  blind — 
For  grief  untold  is  a  horeman's  bold, 

If  a  horseman  rides  behind. 


A  LAMENT 


Had  I  but  sung  the  sullen  joy  my  errant  childhood  knew, 

Perhaps  I  had  expressed  the  soul  of  music  and  the  spheres ; 
Yet,  as  it  is,  I  sing  of  grief,  and  sordid  things  to  rue, 

And  where  I  might  have  sung  of  heaven,  I  sing,  alas!  of  tears. 
'Twere  but  a  jest  'twixt  grief  and  joy,  a  smile  'twixt  sigh  and  song, 

A  silver  cloud  'twixt  sun  and  rain,  a  star  'twixt  day  and  night. — • 
Ah,  had  I  sung  the  things  I  ought — a  lusty  lay,  and  strong — 

Perhaps  I  had  not  sung  in  vain,  and  might  have  found  delight. 


Had  I  but  tracked  the  starbeam  hope  that  beckoned  me  afar 

Perhaps  it  were  the  infinite  rewarded  all  my  quest; 
Yet  in  my  woe  I  sing  of  death,  and  tortured  things  that  are, 

And  where  I  might  have  found  my  God,  I  tarried  not,  his  guest. 
Yet  why  deplore  the  might  have  been,  when  brighter  things  may  be, 

For  blest  and  golden  destinies  may  sentinel  the  years ! — 
0  let  me  sing  no  more  of  grief,  but  joy  that  lends  a  glee ; 

And  then,  perchance,  I  '11  make  you  gay,  and  wash  away  your  tears. 


(  122  ) 


"A  LAMP  TO  THEIR  FEET" 

I  have  waited  at  my  window ;  I  have  seen  you  passing  by ; 
I  have  scanned  you  from  my  eerie ;  I  have  lured  you  with  my  eye ! 
Ye  have  sought  me,  ye  have  bought  me, 

Ye  have  scourged  me,  ye  have  scorned ; 
Yet  I  am  the  things  ye  taught  me! 
I  am  all  the  tears  ye  brought  me! 
I  am  all  wherewith  ye  fraught  me 

Lest  your  dearer  ones  had  mourned. 

Ye  have  kissed  me  in  my  sorrow,  when  your  kisses  were  as  flame ! 
Ye  have  borne  your  gold  to  bless  me — in  the  flush  of  pride  ye  came ! 
Ye  have  lied  to  me,  cajoled  me ;  I  have  lured  you  for  my  prey ! 
And  your  stain  fell  on  my  bosom,  and  was  never  washed  away ! 

I,  a  puppet  in  your  fingers,  coy  and  simple,  blithe  and  cold ! 
Half-a-curtain  at  my  window,  and  the  curse  of  me — your  gold! 
Painted  lips,  and  mirthless  laughter,  tortured  kiss,  and  lying  love ! 
What  know  I  of  God  and  heaven,  or  the  precious  things  thereof? 

Not  for  me  your  recognition,  when  your  dearer  ones  are  by! 
They  I  taste  the  Flame  to  save ;  ah,  what  care  they  for  such  as  I  ? 
Not  a  mother-love  to  thrill  me !    Not  a  husband  heart  that  cheers ! 
Ah,  ye  laugh  to  see  me  mourning — aye,  ye  jest  to  see  my  tears ! 

Ye  have  spurned  me  in  your  temples ;  aye !  and  yours  ye  love  so  free ! 
God  is  good  to  those  who  love  him — those  who  love  him !  but  to  me  ? 
Ye  I  loathe,  and  ye  who  loathe  me — ye  I  curse,  and  ye  I  blight — 
Ye  forbid  me  heed  your  temples — ye  would  tryst  with  me  tonight ! 

I  am  waiting  at  my  window — ye  are  coming  through  the  mists. 
I  am  smiling  from  my  eerie;  I  am  wiling  for  your  kiss! 
Ye  have  sought  me,  ye  have  bought  me, 

Ye  have  scourged  me,  ye  have  scorned ; 
Yet  I  am  the  things  ye  taught  me! 
I  am  all  the  tears  ye  brought  me! 
I  am  all  wherewith  ye  fraught  me 

Lest  your  dearer  ones  had  mourned. 

(123) 


THE  ANGEL  OF  LOST  CAMP 

Cunningham  was  an  engineer,  master  of  eight  degrees ; 

Born  with  a  silver  spoon  in  his  mouth,  raised  on  his  mother 's  knees : 
Lost  Camp  got  him  at  twenty-two,  scrawny  and  weak  and  soft — 
Gave  him  a  swing,  a  flip,  and  a  toss,  and  chucked  him  away  in  the 
loft. 

Cunningham  sputtered  a  year  in  the  mines,  trying  to  get  ahead — 
Wanted  to  marry  the  Girl  back  home:  loved  her  so  much,  he  said! 
Then  he  fell  in  the  ways  of  Clarabelle,  the  only  girl  in  the  camp — 
Clarabelle  gave  him  the  laugh;  and  so  Cunningham  called  her  a 
scamp. 

Clarabelle  was  the  dance-hall  jade — Everyone  pities  her  style ! — 
Cheeks  of  rouge,  and  a  glistening  eye — livid  lips  to  beguile — 
Setting  her  lamp  at  the  window  there,  smiling  to  those  below ! — 
Everyone  said  she  was  passing  fair — desperate  men,  you  know. 

Clarabelle  teased  him,  and  coaxed  him  to  steal  a  bit  of  the  Company 

cash: 
Cunningham  went  to  the  store  at  night,  and  cut  his  way  through  the 

sash — 

He  filled  a  poke  with  a  bundle  of  dust  that  would  stagger  a  com- 
mon fool; 
Then  he  went  to  Clarabelle,  and  drank  till  he  spun  like  a  spool. 

After  his  senses  had  gone  for  a  swim,  she  troubled  him  for  the  dirt : 
Robbed  him,  and  rifled  him,  savings  and  dust,  and  tucked  it  away  in 

her  skirt. 
Took  back  the  dust  to  the  Company,  and  saw  things  right  at  the 

store ; 
And  loaded  her  sock  with  his  savings,  scowling  he  didn't  have  more. 

When  he  aw'oke  the  next  morning,  Clara  was  waiting  to  see, 
Laughing  her  eyes,  there  by  the  bar,  watching  him  pay,  in  her  glee. 
Cunningham  rose  and  staggered  around,  wincing  at  every  jar, 
Then  toppled  away  and  across  the  room,  and  sided  up  to  the  bar. 

(  124  ) 


"Mornin',  shir,  Clara!"  lisped  Cunningham;  ''Ain't  she  a  peach  of  a 

djay? 

Makes  me  shink  of  Arkanshaw,  an'  tshe  fieldsh  of  new-mown  hay — 
Shay,  you  're  an '  angel — shure  shum  shtyle ;  Proud  of  you,  too,  By 

Heck!"— 

But  Clarabelle  stepped  to  Cunningham's  side,  and  her  arm  went 
'round  his  neck. 

"Pack  up  your  things,"  he  heard  her  say — "Lost  Camp  isn't  your 

place. 
Everyone  knows  the  things  I  have  done — staying  here  means  your 

disgrace ; — 

Kiss  the  little  old  girl  for  me!    Go,  now — back  to  the  fold! 
So  long !    No — Never  mind  the  change.    You  might  have  lost  your 
gold!" 


SEA  LOVE 

Oh,  I  loved  a  fisher-lass!  who  loved  so  well? 

But  she  loved  a  landsman,  who  seaward  would  dwell. 

She  pledged  him  her  love,  and  he  touched  her  fair  lips; 

And  they  set  for  the  sea  on  the  frailest  of  ships! 
0,  the  billows  have  claimed  them — they  dwell  side-by-side 

On  a  coraly  reef  in  the  sad  tropic  sea — 
Fate  laughed  wierdly  at  her,  my  ill-to-do  bride ; 

And  the  years  since  are  many  and  bitter  to  me ! 

Yet  where  she  may  be  does  not  sadden  me  now! 
For  I  loved  none  but  her,  and  she  turned  off  my  vow  ; 

But  I  see  her  fair  figure  in  each  flash  of  spray 

Till,  a  grandeur  of  madness,  she  dances  away. 
Yet  I  yearn  for  the  strife  where  the  hurricane  hastes 

Down  lonely  lagoons,  by  the  sad  tropic  sea, 
As  the  windfifes  go  piping,  along  the  gray  wastes, — 

"Oh,  the  long  years  are  many  and  bitter  to  me!" 


(  125  ) 


ON  SWEET  BRIAR  TRAIL 

Yes,  I  suppose  you  would  blame  me ;  but  what  is  a  wtoman  to  do  ? 
Love  for  the  gold,  and  the  title  ?    Worship,  when  Gods  are  untrue  ? 
Turn  from  the  freedom  that  bore  her  to  the  bondage  and  tether  of 

Kings  ? 

Oh,  I  presume  some  would  like  it;  but  I  have  no  heart  for  such 
things ! 

To  me,  there  was  no  one  but  Jim — I  had  known  him  since  first  he 

wore  jeans! 
Always  as  gay  as  a  jester  was  he,  riding  the  range  ere  his  'teens! 

Law,  we  were  always  together,  galloping  down  with  the  gale; 

For  the  open  is  grand  as  a  palace  on  Sweet  Briar  Trail. 

We  went  through  the  schooldays  together ;  the  same  books  taught  us 

to  write; 
The  same  basket  carried  our  dinners ;  we  took  the  same  trail  home  at 

night  ;— 
I  suppose  we  were  the  same  in  our  grudges,  though  but  little  we 

knew  of  such  things; 
And  we  had  the  same  notions  of  honor — as  noble  an  honor  as  kings' ! 

And  so  we  were  married — remember?     Out  under  the  cottonwood 

trees ! 
The  ranch-boys  had  come  in  for  dinner;  the  parson  had  come  out  to 

please ! 
No,  we  had  no  champagne,  but  cider,  galore,  and  the  boys  were 

happy  as  we ; 

And  when  it  was  over  we  kissed  there :  I  kissed  Jim,  and  Jim  kissed 
me. 

We  started  out  life  in  a  cabin,  where  the  cracks  were  as  big  as  the 

doors; 
But  we  patched  all  the  holes  up  with  shingles,  and  put  some  new 

boards  in  the  floors. 
Quite  needless  to  say,  I  was  happy  with  Jim !    You  could  see  it  for 

more  than  a  mile ! 

Why,  he  never  had  told  me  he  loved  me — but  I  knew  it  each  time 
he  would  smile! 

(  126  ) 


Supposing  you  loved  such  a  fellow — My  love  was  a  passion  for  Jim ! 
Would  you  leave  him  and  marry  a  noble?    Or  would  you  just  tarry 

with  him? 
Perhaps  some  would  go  with  the  noble;  but,  really,  you  never  can 

telll- 

So  Jim  found  a  stranger  with  manners;  and  the  stranger — well, 
simply  just  fell ! 

They  came  to  the  door  in  a  gallop,  and  the  stranger  went  under  his 

roan. 
He  whimpered  and  whined  like  a  baby !    Law,  his  hands  were  as  soft 

as  my  own. 
We  bandaged  him  up —  rather,  "hup,"  as  he  said — and  trundled 

him  off  to  the  straw, 
Where  he  told  us  a  story  of  London,  remittances,  and  the  Law. 

A  stranger,  indeed !    His  title,  quite  long !    Some  money  from  home, 

every  week. 

He  prated  of  handicaps,  bally  caf  ays — his  drawl  like  a  calf  in  a  creek ! 
Had  traveled  abroad ;  was  an  Oxford  A.  B.,  and  sometime  a  fellow  to 

Kings — 

But  Sweet  Briar  never  goes  crazy,  and  pays  little  heed  of  such 
things. 

It  might  be  the  firelight,  though  possibly  not,  but  he  got  a  glimpse  of 

my  face ; 
And  nothing  would  do  but  he  must  have  a  kiss,  before  he  got  off  of 

the  place. 
He  teased,  and  cajoled,  but  I  kept  mighty  close — I  had  no  kisses 

for  him; 
For  a  puncher  is  good  as  a  noble,  and  I  loved  a  puncher  named  Jim ! 

You  of  course  understand  that  it  got  on  my  nerves,  and  I  felt  like  a 

coyote  at  bay. 
He  showed  me  some  gold,  and  his  favorite  ring,  and  asked  me  to  take 

him  away. 
I  could  not  help  laughing,  though  really  it  was  a  deporable  sort  of 

a  mess ! 

But  the  stranger — "Well,  he  was  just  silly — had  never  known  better, 
I  guess! 

(  127  ) 


Up,  early  next  morn,  Jim  was  off  to  the  range,  and  would  not  be 

back  for  the  day. 
I  hated  a  thought  of  a  sight  of  the  noble,  but  Law !  I  could  not  get 

away. 
Who  would  see  to  the  calves,  and  the  rest  of  the  chores  ?    Nobody ! 

The  rules  never  fail ! 
It  is  twenty-five  miles  to  a  neighbor,  on  Sweet  Briar  Trail. 

The  stranger  got  up  in  a  humor — a  headache — a  backache — and  so 
I  put  him  down  for  exhibit ;  and  Law !  he  was  surely  a  show ! 

Just  put  such  a  man  for  a  day  on  the  range :    Why,  any  puncher 

can  see 

He  is  not  worth  his  beans  as  a  watchdog — and  here  he  was,  asking 
for  me. 

I  suppose  it  is  nature  for  women  to  preserve  what  is  dearest  to  them. 
At  least  we  will  do  it  forever,  and  die  for  it,  flower,  and  stem.— 
I  looked  at  the  noble,  and  he  looked  at  me,  and  we  stared  like  a 

couple  of  fools — 

But  I  hurtled  him  something  for  breakfast,  and  set  by  a  couple  of 
stools. 

Law,  no!    Not  the  breakfast  he  wanted!   But  more  than  the  break- 
fast, a  kiss ! 
I  suppose  that  the  noble  was  crazy — I  have  thought  so  from  that  day 

to  this ! 
But  the  first  thing  I  knew  he  was  holding  my  arms,  and  I  struggled 

to  dodge  the  disgrace : 

I  grabbed  up  a  poker,  and  burnt  him,  and  left  a  black  mark  on  his 
face. 

I  told  him  to  go,  and  he  slunk  like  a  dog — I  even  must  saddle  his  roan. 
He  wanted  a  kiss  as  I  lifted  him  on — he  could  not  mount  the  saddle 

alone. 
But  I  latched  close  the  door  till  he  got  up  the  trail,  and  the  hills 

hid  all  traces  of  him ; 

Then  did  up  my  chores  and  waited  and  waited,  till  evening,  for 
Jim. 

(  128  ) 


Jim  came  home  that  night  with  a  stare  in  his  eyes,  and  his  face  was 

wrinkled  and  drawn. 

He  asked  me,  where  was  the  noble  ?  but  I  told  him  the  fellow  was  gone. 
He  said  he  had  riddled  a  wolf  in  the  hills,  and  found  in  the  teeth 

of  the  thing 
A  bit  of  a  man's  twisted  finger,  and  the  noble's  favorite  ring. 

I  cried,  for  I  knew  it  was  over ;  and  deeply  Jim  mourned  at  the  joke. 

But  the  lord  had  his  tomb  in  the  mountains  in  a  place  grave  never 

was  broke. 

You  ask  me  why  I  have  tarried,  and  lingered  my  life  in  a  vale ! — 
Well,  a  puncher  is  good  as  a  noble  on  Sweet  Briar  Trail. 

A  SONG  OF  THE  PLAINS 

Freedom  is  ours,  and  a  merry  song ; 

Life,  and  the  long,  long  trail ; 
Laughter  that  lifts ;  and  a  heart  so  strong, 

Biding  before  the  gale  ! 
What  care  we  for  the  snows  that  fall  ? 

What  care  we  for  the  pain? 
Nought  cheers  our  hearts  like  the  winds  that  call, 

Galloping  down  the  plain. 

Plenty  to  eat,  and  a  place  to  sleep ! 

Hope,  and  a  place  to  roam ! 
Nothing  to  fret  us,  nor  need  to  weep — 

Under  a  bough,  our  home ! 
Ours  is  liberty,  given  rein, 

Youth,  and  a  broncho  true ! — 
Give  us  a  trail  on  the  windy  plain — 

We  ask  no  more  of  you! 

Over  our  heads,  the  boundless  skies ! 

Under  our  hoofs,  the  sand ! 
Over  the  ridges !  along  the  rise ! 

Galloping  down  the  land ! 
What  care  we  for  the  winter  fears? 

Wind,  or  the  driving  rains? 
We  are  the  monarchs  of  all  the  years, 

Biding  across  the  plains ! 
(  129  ) 


THE  HILLS  OF  THE  COLUMBIA 

The  winds  are  quiet  on  the  hills,  tonight ; 

Pale  flames  of  ghost-like  glare  where  sunset  fades; 
Along  the  scarlet  chasms,  purple  light 

Wreathes  elfin  fancies  on  the  palisades; 
Upon  the  east,  a  grayish  glow  expires ; 

A  star  glows  out  alone;  the  far  sheep  cry; 
Toward  the  west,  the  evening's  ruddy  fires 

Lap  like  tongued  serpents  at  the  western  sky. 

Below  my  feet,  beneath  my  trail  that  clings, 

Faint  sheep-forms  shimmer  on  the  lowland  brown; 
Against  the  canyonside  a  ripple  sings 

And  breaks  to  sudden  laughter,  leaping  down. 
Far  out  beneath  me  lies  a  pleasant  field, 

Touched  with  the  dullness  of  a  vanished  sun; 
Turned  by  a  share  to  fallow  and  to  yield, 

Where  mist-lights  frolic  when  the  day  is  done. 

Upon  the  fields,  the  ghastly  haycocks  stand, 

Like  sudden  spectres,  wakened  in  surprise; 
An  eagle  wails  its  note  unto  the  land; 

The  world  grows  dark ;  the  day  fades  from  my  eyes. 
Yet,  with  the  coming  of  the  evening  hush, 

The  stygian  stillness,  as  the  sheep-cries  cease, 
The  mist-hung  chasms  warble  with  a  lyric  thrush, 

That  calls  in  darkness  from  its  precipice. 

And  so  comes  night ;  and  so  comes  joy,  and  rest ; 

A  moon  against  the  east,  where  dawn  shall  be ! 
A  last  faint  glimmer  of  the  sunset  west, 

And  lonely  darkness  on  the  hills  with  me. 
And  so  I  stand;  and  so  I  dream  of  old, 

Of  dear,  forgotten  things,  that  come  to  me, 
And  light  the  chasms  of  my  dreams  with  gold, 

And  flame  the  garnered  harvests  of  my  memory. 

(  130  ) 


ON  THE  CLIFF  PATH 


I  heard  him  at  dawn  on  the  highroad, 

When  the  mists  trailed  dim  on  the  sea; 
And  the  harvesters  toiled  down  the  byroad, 
And  the  wings  of  the  wind  were  free — 
The  drifting  clouds 
Draped  the  heads  with  shrouds; 
And  a  song  blew  over  the  lea, 
And  a  spirit  was  singing  on  my  road 
And  it  bore  a  rare  pleasure  to  me. 

An  albatross  winged  in  the  barrows, 
And  a  fragrance  spilled  on  the  lea, 
And  the  creeling  and  crying  of  sparrows 
Came  up  from  the  breakers  to  me, — 
The  ragged  reef 
"Was  a  silver  sheaf 
As  it  bathed  in  the  jovial  sea ; 
And  the  seagulls  went  glinting  in  farrows, — 
"Where  the  songs  of  the  shore  echoed  free. 

And  swiftly  the  swallows  went  flying, 

And  the  bay  was  a  fancy  set  free, 
As  the  crimson  of  dawning  was  dying, 
And  romance  danced  over  the  sea ; 
Across  the  rifts 
Of  the  scattered  drifts 
A  song  echoed  over  the  lea — 
And  it  wakened  my  bosom  to  sighing, — 
Yet  it  bore  a  strange  gladness  to  me. 


(  131  ) 


IN  THE  LANE 

Old  house,  wold  house,  open  wide  your  door, 

Let  a  flame  o'  baskin'  light  come  straying  down  the  rain — 

A  dear  light,  a  cheer  light,  to  gladden  me  once  more, 
And  wake  anew  my  dreams  of  yore,  singing  up  the  lane. 

Och,  singing  up  the  lane  I  am  to  find  my  little  house  again, 

My  own  house,  my  lone  house,  the  house  where  I  was  born, 
To  nestle  in  the  tansy  bloom  ,beneath  the  willow  boughs  again, 

The  dear  boughs,  the  cheer  boughs,  where  thrushes  sing  o'  morn. 
Not  a  whit  o '  shame  I  had !  Just  a  bit  o '  fame  I  had, 

Dear  fame,  cheer  fame,  a  glowing  fame  so  rare! 
But  never  shall  I  quest  the  wine  nor  seek  a  wan  carouse  again, 

And  never  break  my  vows  again,  and  never  know  a  care. 

Singing  up  the  lane  I  am  to  roam  the  misty  dell  again, 

The  far  dell,  the  star  dell,  the  dell  o'  silence  sweet! 
To  skelter  down  the  heatherside,  with  laughter  like  a  bell  again, 

A  dear  bell,  a  cheer  bell,  my  olden  joys  to  meet! 
My  rare  joys,  my  fair  joys,  the  kiss  o'  tender  hope  again, 

Arm  in  arm  along  the  brae,  and  singing  in  a  task, 
A  gay  task,  a  play  task,  a  wander  down  the  slope  again, 

Until  to  cot  I  grope  gain — a  rest  is  all  I  ask! 

Och,  singing  up  the  lane  I  am  to  kiss  those  lips  o'  rose  again, 

Those  fair  lips,  those  rare  lips,  those  lips  o'  love  and  joy! 
To  wander  by  the  dewy  shore  when  heather  blossom  blows  again, 

The  dear  shore,  the  cheer  shore!    I  loved  it  as  a  boy! 
Not  a  whit  o '  shame  I  had !    Just  a  bit  o '  fame  I  had, 

Sweet  fame,  meet  fame,  a  smiling  fame  so  fair! 
But  never  shall  I  burst  the  leash,  nor  loiter  in  the  tows  again, 

Nor  curse  my  stent  o'  woes  again,  nor  claim  a  rover's  share. 

Singing  up  the  lane  I  am  to  greet  a  heart  o'  gold  again, 
A  love  heart,  a  dove  heart,  a  heart  o'  hope  that's  true; 

To  say  a  gentle  word  o'  tryst,  and  roam  the  paths  o'  old  again, 
The  dear  paths,  the  cheer  paths,  with  overhead,  the  blue! 

(  132  ) 


The  high  blue,  the  sky  blue,  the  silver-crested  dawn,  again, 
Arm  in  arm  across  the  bush  to  frolic  by  the  sea, 

The  glad  sea,  the  sad  sea,  that  sweeps  old  glamours  on  again, 
To  frolic  by  the  bawn  again,  with  one  so  dear  to  me. 

Old  house,  wold  house,  take  me  to  your  rest ! 

Let  me  wander,  by  the  hearth,  in  fancy,  far  and  near, 
A  kind  hearth,  a  pined  hearth,  and  linger  on  the  west, 

And  clutch  unto  my  lonely  breast  one  I  hold  most  dear. 


SUCCESS 

I  crush  the  dreamer  on  his  wheel  of  dreaming ; 

I  mock  the  sophister,  yet  want  for  creed; 
I  blind  the  hope  of  weakling  with  my  gleaming; 

I  scorn  the  hoarding  miser  for  his  greed; 
I  curse  the  haughty;  I  adore  the  holy; 

I  blast  the  craven  souls  that  cringe  and  lack! 
I  lay  my  fondest  laurels  on  the  brow  of  lowly, 

Yet  torture  pride  upon  my  torture-rack. 

I  come  by  soft  degrees  by  stern  regaling, 

Like  scarlet  dawn  that  scatters  earth  with  day; 
I  pour  around  the  light  of  hope-unfailing, 

For  him  who  would  adventure  on  my  way. 
I  steel  men's  hearts  with  lust  to  bear  their  sorrow! 

With  cruel  thorns  I  scourge  the  feet  of  dream; 
Yet  in  my  smiling  laurels  crown  the  morrow — 

A  fond  reward  for  following  my  gleam. 

Upon  the  threshold,  then  ,of  my  adventure, 

Ye  who  would  slave  you  well  to  win  my  prize, 
Lift  up  thy  colors,  deaf  to  jest  and  censure! 

Behold  the  glare  I  flaunt  before  your  eyes ! 
Ignore  the  toil ;  the  soul  is  strong  for  rending ! 

Renounce  the  pleasure;  mirth  turns  dross  with  ease! 
Immortal  fame  lies  at  my  pathway's  ending! 

Toil  for  my  goal ;  ambition  holds  the  keys ! 

(  133  ) 


THE  VILLAGE  BEE 

I  met  a  village  bee,  one  time,  most  winsome  and  demure, 

As  comely  as  the  lilac  sweet  and  rare ; 
She  was  stately  as  a  seraph — rather  stunning,  I  am  sure ! 

Her  countenance  a  fay  would  wish  to  share. 
So  I  says,  "O  amorata,  lady-arch  of  all  my  dreams, 
Couldst  thou  not  bestow  upon  me  one  rare  blessing  of  thy  beams  t" 
But  she  scowls  a  bit  remorseful,  and  frowns  most  cold  at  me, 
And  chaws  her  gum,  and  says,  ''Just  twenty-three ! " 

Now  her  beak  was  like  the  lilac,  and  her  lips  were  like  the  rose! 

Her  eyes  were  quite  ridiculously  blue! 
But  I  though  there  was  a  blitheness  in  the  habits  of  her  nose, 

And,  thinks  I,  "Well,  Charles,  here's  something  nice  for  you!" 
So  I  smiles  a  bit  upon  her,  though  smiles  as  well  were  sobs : 
"Wouldst  thous  give  me  but  a  lock  of  wool?   Thou  hast  the  same  in 

gobs!" 

But  she  darkens  something  heinous,  and  frowns  like  hully-gee, 
And  chaws  her  gum,  and  says,  "Just  twenty-three!" 

As  I  say,  her  beak  was  lilac,  and  a  daisy,  I  confess, 

And  her  face  was  most  uncoloredly  devout; 
Her  demeanor,  something  scruptious,  like  the  hanging  of  her  dress — 

She  was  spirited  and  charming,  never  doubt! 
But  her  phiz  is  like  a  cabbage,  and  her  profile  like  the  kale, 
And  she  has  the  spooks  and  goblins  put  to  sleep  for  white  and  pale  I 
And  she  sure  can  frown  remorseful,  and  proves  the  same  to  me, 
And  chaws  her  gum,  and  says,  "Just  twenty-three!" 

Well,  I  takes  her  for  a  phantom,  and  I  tracks  her  down  the  street, 

Though  indeed  she  is  elusive  as  a  wisp, 
Till  at  last  I  gets  her  cornered,  and  she  sure  is  honeyed  meat, 

So  I  starts  the  conversation  with  a  lisp. 

(134) 


But  her  ways  are  cold  and  distant,  as  a  drowsy  brook  that  sings, 
And  she  buzzes  kind  of  wheezy,  like  the  agile  bee  that  stings, 

And  she  stings  me  like  an  artist :  ' '  Go  !  find  your  mah, ' '  says  she, 
And  chaws  her  gum,  and  says,  "Just  twenty-three!" 

I  was  braver  in  a  jiffy,  for  resistance  makes  it  sport, 
And  I  puts  a  word  in  crossways,  fit  to  please; 
For  thinks  I,  "Here's  opportunity,  and  here's  a  maid  to  court!" 

(Love-at-first-sight  is  a  funny  old  disease!) 
So  I  ventures  she  is  charming,  and  in  fact  she  is  a  rage! 
"0  my  lovely  amorata;  won't  you  tell  me  just  your  age?" 
But  she  snarls  a  bit  remorseful,  and  sniffles  back  to  me, 
And  chaws  her  gum,  and  says,  "Just  twenty- three !"  , 

I  inquires  about  her  family,  if  her  folks  were  well  at  home, 

And  they  still  loved  baby-nittles  as  they  used;  » 

If  her  narrow-minded  daddy  still  was  dusty  in  the  dome, 

Or  had  gained  him  sense  to  know  he  was  abused? 
But  she  glares  a  bit  at  me  and  says,  "You  ought  not  be  alone; 
Do  not  venture  on  the  street  again  without  a  chaperone!" 

And  she  scowls  some  more  remorseful,  and  trudges  down  the  lea, 
And  chaws  her  gum,  and  says,  "Just  twenty-three!" 

Woe  me !  I  am  susceptible  to  ways  and  wiles  of  maids —  » 

I  love  them,  though  they  aren't  up  to  snuff! 
But  I  crown  my  amorata  as  the  dowsiest  of  jades, 

For  she  takes  the  grapes  from  all  of  them  for  guff. 
And  so,  you  may  imagine  how  I  must  have  felt  that  day 
As  she  sniffles  right  particular,  and  wends  upon  her  way — 

"Better  go  and  find  your  mah ;  you  aren't  wanted  here !"  says  she, 
And  chaws  her  gum,  and  says,  "Just  twenty-three!" 


(135) 


THREE  MEN  OF  THE  SEA 

Once  on  a  time,  there  were  three  little  men,  three  strange  little  men, 

it  is  true, 
Who  dreamed  every  day  in  a  land  far  away  in  a  bower  of  blossoming 

blue; 
In  a  garden  of  dreams  on  the  face  of  a  cliff,  with  a  strange  purple 

city  below, 

Where  the  shores  go  down  from  the  misty  town  to  the  Ocean  of 
Long  Ago. 

These  three  little,  strange  little  men  each  day  went  forth  as  the  night 

drew  on, 
And  the  day's  last  gleams  lent  flame  to  their  dreams  of  the  bliss  of 

the  days  long  gone: 

Of  a  childhood  day,  and  a  day  of  glee,  and  a  day  of  gladness,  too ; 
And  the  golden  joy  of  a  careless  boy  in  a  land  where  dreams  come 
true. 

Said  one,  ''The  sea  is  the  wolf  of  God:  its  prey  is  the  men  of  earth; 

On  the  shoals  they  lie,  and  the  surges  cry  in  grief  at  the  waters'  mirth. 
It  beckons  youth  and  rends  his  grace,  and  robs  his  soul  of  ease, 
Till  regret  looms  vast  as  his  hopes  go  past ;  and  that  is  the  way  of 
the  seas." 

Said  another,  "The  sea  is  a  place  of  joy,  and  merriment  there  prevails, 

When  the  mists  arise  to  the  gleaming  skies,  and  a  bark  of  silver  sails, 

For  the  fancy  wanders  abroad,  unleashed,  in  the  crimson  sun 's  last 

beams, 

As  I  sit  by  the  beach  where  the  waves  beseech,  and  cast  my  nets  for 
dreams. ' ' 

And  then  spake  the  third  little  strange  little  man  and  his  voice  was 

gentle  and  sweet: 
"When  the  sea  is  fair  its  voice  is  prayer,  enshrined  at  the  mountain's 

feet. 
And  the  heart  may  find  what  joy  it  will,  or  regret,  if  that  will 

please ; 
But  its  tender  voice  bids  me  rejoice,  and  urges  my  soul  to  ease." 

(  136  ) 


The  sea  upleaps,  and  the  tide  awakes,  and  dawn  puts  dark  to  flight, 
Till  the  sun's  mad  quest  of  a  golden  west  once  more  brings  on  the 

night. 
And  the  shoal  laments  and  its  wail  goes  forth,  yet  the  sea-wind 

bears  a  glee, 

And  the  golden  joy  of  a  careless  boy  to  the  three  little  men  of  the 
sea. 


GOSPEL— ACCORDIN'  TO  GEORGE 


Where  the  big  hills  bite  the  sky, 
And  the  woodland  chansons  sigh, 
Let  me  live,  and  let  me  die. 

Out  where  none  else  cares  to  go, 
When  the  winter-tempests  blow, 
And  the  purple  chasms  glow. 

Seeking  spots  where  none  have  been, 
Wilds  no  man  before  was  in — 
That  is  where  my  Gods  begin. 

Maybe  I  am  pagan;  still 
I  would  rather  quaff  my  fill 
Of  religion  from  a  rill! 

So  I  break  from  toil  and  sweat, 

City  striving,  city  fret — 

Find  the  mountains,  and  forget. 

Plain  religion — that  is  mine ! 
Life !  A  song !  The  trail !  A  pine ! 
Why  lament  ?    The  hills  are  mine ! 


(  137  ) 


MY  LITTLE  PATH  AND  I 

I  have  a  quiet  little  path  I  follow  through  the  woods, 
Beneath  a  many  a  branch  and  bough,  in  many  a  crook  and  bend ; 

For  oftentimes  my  spirit  broods 

And  so,  I  seek  these  solitudes 
To  find  the  little  path  I  love,  and  wander  to  its  end. 

A  brook  leaps  down  beside  it  fromfan  overhanging  ledge. 
Its  merry  music  fills  the  place  with  gay,  enchanted  noise. 
It  leads  away  into  the  sedge, 
And  lilies  blossom  at  its  edge — 
My  path  forever  leads  me  here;  no  wonder  I  rejoice. 

The  overhanging  willow-boughs  make  dark  my  path  in  spots, 
But  elsewhere  silver  sunglow  falls  and  filters  on  the  green, 

And  fills  dame  Nature *s  flower-pots 

With  jonquils  and  forget-me-nots ; 
That  wreathe  a  vernal  garden  where  no  hand  save  mine  may  glean. 

On  every  side  are  quiet  woods,  the  oak,  the  maple  tree, 
The  tall,  inspiring  cottonwood,  the  ash  tree,  and  the  pine. 

It  makes  a  merry  place  to  be, 

Forever  held  in  secrecy — 
Unhallowed  feet  have  never  been  upon  this  path  of  mine ! 

The  noises  of  the  city  are  faint  and  vague  and  dim — 
I  wonder  how  the  wood  has  stayed  unharmed  by  human  hand; 
For  man  will  ever  rend  the  limb 
And  what  may  dare  to  hinder  him ; — 
Unless  the  wood  awaited  me,  I  cannot  understand. 

I  love  to  wander  here  and  dream  amid  the  deep  recess, 
Where  human  voice  may  not  disturb,  and  only  bird  is  nigh ; 

And  strive  the  wood's  charade  to  guess, 

And  quest  its  hidden  loveliness — 
In  this  we  find  our  pleasure,  my  little  path,  and  I. 

(  138  ) 


I  often  think  if  I  could  know  the  pleasure  and  the  peace 
That  lingers  in  these  solitudes,  and  revels  by  the  shore, 
My  soul  would  find  a  joyous  lease 
And  rid  my  thoughts  of  their  unease — 
If  I  could  only  know  these  truths,  I  should  not  ask  for  more. 

The  world  may  revel  with  their  wealth,  and  spend  it  as  they  go — 
May  rot  in  sweating  cities,  where  skill  and  genius  vie; 

But  we  would  rather  dream,  and  oh ! 

Would  rather  our  sweet  secrets  know, 
Than  rule  the  world  forever,  my  little  path,  and  I. 


THE  LAST  MUSICIAN 

Lonely,  alone,  upon  the  last  chill  peak  that  gnaws  the  sky, 

I  lude  the  symphony  of  solitude  remote, 
Lamenting  my  minstrelsy  to  wilds  that  sigh, 
Yet  heed,  nor  know,  my  note. 

Riven  and  rent  by  winds  that  wot  not  of  their  wandering  course,, 

Whose  clutching  fingers  strive  upon  my  lyre, 
I  sing  my  triumph,  ere  a  tempest's  force 
Bids  me  no  more  aspire. 

Up  to  the  stars  from  glinting  snow-clad  hills  and  vales 

I  mourn  the  dirge  of  worlds  that  long  to  sleep! 
Remorseful  at  the  cold,  I  brood  me  tales! 
I  cringe  at  winds  that  weep, 

Dreaming  of  summer  worlds,  the  South,  the  smiling  sun, 

The  blatant  equinox,  the  springtime  thaw, 
The  desert  autumn,  where  summer's  glass  is  run 
In  fate's  eternal  law. 

Sadly  my  song  lifts  to  the  flaring  northlights  as  they  shine: 

I  whine,  I  wail,  I  weep  at  tempest,  fury-swirled! 
I  chant  of  primal  strivings  that  resign — 
My  deathsong  of  the  world. 

(139) 


IN  TEMPEST 

I  know  not  what  the  way  of  life  will  bring : 
I  only  know  that  I  must  face  the  gale, 

Braving  wild  waters,  where  mad  billows  fling 
Their  turbid  mockery  to  my  sail. 

Yet  irks  me  not  whence  Pilotage  may  spring, 

If,  when  I  draw  to  Doubt's  tempestuous  realm, 

My  craft  shall  be  a  sturdy  thing, 
And  Faith  be  at  the  helm. 

Or  if  to  storm-tossed  wreck-washed  spar  I  cling, 
Lost  where  the  raging  wintry  waves  assail, 

I  only  know  the  joyous  bells  will  sing 
For  those  who  live  to  tell  their  tale. 

Yet  irks  me  not  when  shattered  wreck  may  rift, 
Nor  when  my  fervid  destiny  may  call, 

If  on  the  turbid  gale  I  drift 
To  haven,  after  all. 

If  in  the  trying  hours  whose  sorrows  bring 
Into  this  heart  of  mine  the  scoffer's  wail, 

Faith's  loving,  loyal,  tender  comforting 
Make  strong  anew  my  tattered  sail : 

Irks  me  but  little  to  what  buoy  I  cling 

When  in  the  gloom  of  doubt  I  find  the  light 

And  heart  the  haven's  antheming 
Adown  toward  the  night. 

Of  if  the  bitter  billows  sorely  sting 

A  shipwrecked  fellow,  and  my  wretched  sail 

Falls  to  his  eye,  and  from  the  dark  he  sing 
For  aid,  may  I  not  flinch  or  fail : 

For  irks  me  not  what  journey-path  be  mine, 
How  fraught  with  tumult,  harried,  or  distrest, 

If  I  may  guide  with  aid  divine 

Some  soul  to  faith's  sweet  rest. 

(  140  ) 


I  know  not  what  the  tide  of  death  will  bring : 
I  only  know  I  pass  within  the  pale : 

I  only  know  the  bells  of  triumph  ring 
For  those  who  weather  through  the  gale : 

Nor  irks  me  when  those  distant  chimes  may  sing 
If,  in  the  night  of  Doubt,  I  find  Faith's  star, 

And  hear  the  joyous  welcoming 
Across  the  harbor  bar. 


REQUIESCAT 


Men  there  may  dwell  that  would  drone  in  a  cell,  pent  in  the  walls  of 

a  shrine : 

Give  me  the  open,  the  weird,  wide  hills,  untethered,  blithe,  divine ! 
Mine  be  a  cabin,  with  four  stout  walls,  deep  in  the  wilds,  where 

the  snows  sift  down; — 

Cave,  if  thy  will,  in  their  rutted  halls:    0  shackle  me  not  to  the 
lazar  town. 

Others  there  are  that  would  dream  of  a  star,   elysian  meadow  of 

dreams : 
Mine  be  a  coign  in  the  budding  trees,  when  Springtime  rills  the 

streams ! 
Mine  be  a  pack,  and  a  dream,  and  a  song;  love  and  a  jest,  with  a 

hope  in  store  ; — 

Tread  if  they  will  through  the  sputter  of  stars :  0  give  me  the  free- 
dom— I  ask  no  more! 

Some  there  may  be  that  would  porphyry  their  graves  till  the  dawning 

of  doom : 

Mine  be  a  cairn  in  the  sleeping  hills — a  lonely  rock,  my  tomb; 
Blanketed  stark  by  the  glittering  frost,  just  at  my  headstone,  a  pine 

to  sway; 

Over  me,  mangers  of  star-bright  cosmos,  dusting  the  dreams  of  my 
swinish  clay. 


(  141  ) 


THE  WINDS  OF  LOVE 

Hark!  They  are  calling  us  over  the  world:   road  beneath,  the  blue 

above ; 
Us  they  flush,  and  you  they  hush ;  but  the  call  we  know  is  the  voice 

of  love ! 

We  could  hear  them  in  the  passes,  when  the  stars  were  in  the  grasses, 
While  the  Titans  of  the  winter  strove  to  rend  her  snowy  nets, 

As  they  carolled  from  the  surges  to  the  utmost  peak  that  verges, 
Where  the  pinetree  sings  its  anthem,  while  a  sleeping  world  forgets. 

We  could  hear  them  'round  our  campfires,  while  our  reveries  were  of 

trampfires, 

Where  no  trail  was  cleft  to  guide  us,  yet  we  wandered  on  our  way, 
As  their  melodies  came  sighing  in  a  primal  song,  undying, 

That  was  born  no  man  remembers  when,  but  was  through  time  for 
aye. 

We  could  hear  them  in  the  gloaming,  and  they  set  our  whole  souls 
roaming 

On  the  scarlet  sounds  and  channels,  where  the  ships  of  sunset  sail, 
Like  a  shorewind  in  the  willows,  sobbing  lonely  o'er  the  billows, 

With  the  choral-throated  breathing  of  the  smother  and  the  gale. 

Lo,  they  fraught  us,  and  they  blest  us!  Ho,  they  caught  us,  and 
caressed  us ! 

Swept  us  upward,  soul  and  fancy,  for  a  journey  on  their  wings ! 
And  it's  oh !  the  winds  will  kiss  us,  and  the  ones  we  love  will  miss  us, 

For  we  're  back  to  find  our  mintrel  in  the  silence  where  she  sings. 

Oh,  it's  back  to  lands  of  fancy,  where  the  heart's  a  bird  in  tansy! 

And  it's  back  across  the  world  again,  with  freedom,  and  the  sky! 
So  good-bye  to  care  and  sorrow :  we  '11  be  free  from  them  tomorrow ! 

For  it's  vagabonds  of  love  we  are,  my  little  dog,  and  I. 

Lo !  they  are  calling  us  over  the  world,  grass  beneath,  the  stars  above ! 
Us  they  hail,  and  you  they  rail ;  but  the  call  we  know  is  the  voice  of 
love! 

(  142  ) 


LASTUDE 


And  so  my  lute  falls  from  my  palsied  fingers ; 

Its  chords,  re-echoing,  fade  dim  away; 
Yet  in  my  memory  a  chanson  lingers, 

A  fonder  hide  than  human  hand  may  play. 


A  symphony  of  mirth,  of  sphinx-like  laughter, 
Portentuous  of  some  mad  soul's  desire, 

Flung  answerless  to  night,  whose  stygian  crafter 
Veils  darkness  '  round  his  forge  of  sunset  fire. 


Far  though  the  hills,  by  boundless  gaping  ridges, 

The  strains  aspire,  deepfraught  with  quenchless  hope, 

A  wistful  antheming,  whose  choral  bridges 
Life's  chasms  to  the  wastes,  where  dead  souls  grope. 

As  I  have  sung,  dear  comrades,  you  have  listened; 

And  if  my  wistful  song  has  made  you  gay, 
Ours  be  true  comradeship  till  earth  has  mistened — 

Eternity  for  us  is  but  a  day. 


(  143  ) 


STATESMAN  PUB.  Co., 
SALEM,  OREGON, 


